EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


VOLUMES  IN  THIS  SERIES 

Published  and  in  Preparation 
Edited  by  WILL  D.  HOWE 


ARNOLD Stuart  P.  Sherman 

BROWNING William  Lyon  Phelps 

BURNS William  Allan  Neilson 

CARLYLE Bliss  Perry 

DANTE Alfred  M.  Brooks 

DEFOE William  P.  Trent 

DICKENS Richard  Burton 

EMERSON SamuelMcChordCr  others 

HAWTHORNE      .     .     .      George  Edward  Woodberry 

THE  BIBLE George  Hodges 

IBSEN Archibald  Henderson 

LAMB Will  D.  Howe 

STEVENSON Richard  A.  Rice 

TENNYSON    ....     Raymond  Macdonald  Alden 

WHITMAN Brand  Whitlock 

WORDSWORTH  C.  T.  Winchester 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

HOW  TO  KNOW  HIM 

By 
C.  ALPHONSO  SMITH 

Head  of  the  Department  of  English 

in  the  United  States  Naval  Academy,  Annapolis,  Maryland 

Former  Edgar  Allan  Poe  Professor  of  English 

in  the  University  of  Virginia 

^Author  of 

WHAT   CAN   LITERATURK  DO   FOR   MK? 
O.  HFNRY   BIOGRAPHY,  ETC. 


WITH  PORTRAIT 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1921 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


or 

•MAUNWORTH   IL  CO. 

BOOK   MANUFACTURERS 

BROOKLYN,    N.  Y. 


To 

ARCHIBALD  HENDERSON  SCALES,  REAR  ADMIRAL,  UNITED  STATES 

NAVY, SUPERINTENDENT  OP  THE  UNITED 

STATES  NAVAL  ACADEMY 

and 

ARCHIBALD   HENDERSON,  HEAD  OF  THE  DEPARTMENT 

OF  MATHEMATICS,  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED  IN  TOKEN  OF  SINCERE  FRIENDSHIP 
AND  IN  MEMORY  OP  STIMULATING  COMRADESHIP 


C18833 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    THE  WORLD-AUTHOR 1 

Biography  —  Centennial  —  Russia  —  Germany — 
Italy — Spain — Latin-America — France — England 
— Retrospect  and  Prospect. 

II    THE  MAN 26 

Relation  to  Time  and  Place — Accurate  Observer 
— Interest  in  Public  Education — Slavery — Alleged 
Sectionalism — Americanism — Humor — At  Home — 
Religion — Intemperance — Not  the  Poet  Laureate 
of  Darkness. 

Ill    THE  CRITIC — INTRODUCTION 73 

"The  Faculty  of  Identification" 76 

"The  Novel  as  History  and  Philosophy"     ...  78 
"An  Omen  of  Better  Days  for  Southern  Litera 
ture"         80 

"Comparison  vs.  Ideality" 82 

"A  Present  Tense  Wrongly  Used" 93 

"The  Spirit  of  Research  in  Our  Navy"        ...  94 

"Government  and  the  Forms  of  Government"       .  97 

"William  Cullen  Bryant" 98 

"Indefinitiveness  in  Song"        106 

"Fancy  and  Imagination" 110 

"The  Nature  and  Interest  of  Plot" 116 

"Defects  in  the  Technique  of  Barnaby  Rudge"     .  124 

"Longfellow's  Ballads" 142 

"The  Technique  of  the  Short  Story"      ....  149 

"Repetition  an  Aid  to  Quaintness" 158 

"Shelley  and  After" 160 

"Plagiarism" 163 

"How  to  Improve  Our  Drama" 166 

"German  Criticism"  171 


CONTENTS— Continued 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

"The  Technique  of  The  Raven" 173 

"A  Long  Poem  a  Contradiction  in  Terms"       .     .  190 

"The  Heresy  of  the  Didactic" 194 

"Poetical  Themes" 199 

IV    THE  POET— INTRODUCTION 202 

"To  Helen" 210 

"Israfel" 211 

"The  City  in  the  Sea" 212 

"The  Coliseum" 214 

"To  One  in  Paradise" 215 

"The  Haunted  Palace"        216 

"The  Conqueror  Worm" 217 

"The  Raven"         220 

"Ulalume— A  Ballad" 225 

"The  Bells" 228 

"For  Annie" 231 

"Annabel  Lee" 234 

"Eldorado" 236 

V    THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES — INTRODUCTION    .     .  238 

"Ligeia" 245 

"The  Purloined  Letter" 266 

VI    THE  FRONTIERSMAN— INTRODUCTION 293 

"Shadow— A  Parable" 2% 

"Silence— A  Fable" 299 

"The  Conversation  of  Eiros  and  Charmion"    .     .  305 

"The  Island  of  the  Fay" 313 

"The  Colloquy  of  Monos  and  Una" 320 

"The  PowejUaf.  Wards"  - 333 

INDEX                                        343 


PREFACE 

Poe  has  suffered  a  strange  fate.  Nobody  ever 
doubted  his  genius,  but  his  genius  has  clouded  and 
rendered  spectral  and  remote  his  personality.  He  is 
popularly  regarded  as  a  manufacturer  of  cold  creeps 
and  a  maker  of  shivers,  a  wizened,  self-centered  ex 
otic,  un-American  and  semi-insane,  who,  between 
sprees  or  in  them,  wrote  his  autobiography  in  The 
Raven  and  a  few  haunting  detective  stories.  This 
book  is  an  attempt  to  substitute  for  the  travesty  the 
real  Poe,  to  suggest  at  least  the  diversity  of  his  inter 
ests,  his  future-mindedness,  his  sanity,  and  his  hu 
manity.  Old-world  voices  are  requisitioned  to  speak 
for  him,  and  he  in  turn  through  the  wide  gamut  of  his 
work  is  permitted  to  speak  for  himself. 

C.  A.  S. 

United  States  Naval  Academy, 
Annapolis,  Maryland 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

CHAPTER  I 
THE  WORLD-AUTHOR 

IT  is  peculiarly  true  in  the  case  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 
that  to  know  him  you  must  know  more  than  the  bare 
facts  and  dates  of  his  life.  These  may  be  summar 
ized  as  follows: 

He  was  born  in  Boston,  at  what  is  now  62  Carver 
Street,  on  January  19,  1809,  the  triangle  at  Carver 
and  Broadway  having  been  recently  named  the  Edgar 
Allan  Poe  Square.  His  mother,  Elizabeth  Arnold,  a 
talented  and  beautiful  English  actress,  had  been  early 
left  a  widow  and  in  1806  at  the  age  of  nineteen  had 
married  David  Poe,  Jr.,  a  native  of  Baltimore.  David 
Poe  was  also  an  actor  but  does  not  seem  to  have 
shared  the  rare  gifts  of  his  wife  or  to  have  inherited 
the  sturdier  qualities  of  his  father,  a  hero  of  the 
American  Revolution.  "My  father  David  died/' 
writes  Poe,  "when  I  was  in  the  second  year  of  my 
age,  and  when  my  sister  Rosalie  was  an  infant  in 
arms.  Our  mother  died  a  few  weeks  before  him. 
Thus  we  were  left  orphans  at  an  age  when  the  hand 
of  a  parent  is  so  peculiarly  requisite.  At  this  period 
my  grandfather's  circumstances  were  at  a  low  ebb,  he 
from  great  wealth  having  been  reduced  to  poverty.  It 
was  therefore  in  his  power  to  do  but  little  for  us.  My 
brother  Henry  he  took,  however,  under  his  charge, 
while  myself  and  Rosalie  were  adopted  by  gentlemen 
in  Richmond,  where  we  were  at  the  period  of  our 


2  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

parents'  death.  I  was  adopted  by  Mr.  John  Allan  of 
Richmond,  Virginia,  and  she  by  Mr.  William  McKen- 
zie  of  the  same  place."  When  Mr.  Allan  died,  in 
1834,  he  had  given  Poe  five  years  of  schooling  in 
England,  from  1815  to  1820;  he  had  sent  him  for 
one  session,  that  of  1826,  to  the  University  of  Vir 
ginia  ;  he  had  placed  him  in  his  counting-house  in 
Richmond ;  he  had  obtained  his  discharge  from  the 
army,  in  which  Poe  had  enlisted  at  Boston  in  1827; 
he  had  secured  his  appointment  as  a  cadet  at  West 
Point,  where  he  remained  from  July,  1830,  to  March, 
1831 ;  and  he  had  continued  to  send  a  large  enough 
remittance  for  his  protege  to  live  on.  It  is  to  be  hoped 
also  that  he  had  read  with  proper  pride  The  Ms,  Found 
in  a  Bottle  with  which  his  namesake  had  astonished 
the  reading  public  of  Baltimore  the  year  before  and 
won  the  hundred-dollar  prize,  this  being  the  first  pub 
lic  recognition  of  Poe's  narrative  skill. 

Had  Mr.  Allan  lived  a  year  longer  he  would  have 
seen  Poe  back  in  Richmond  on  a  salary  of  eight  hun 
dred  dollars  a  year  as  the  editor  of  the  great  Southern 
Literary  Messenger.  Never  again  was  his  salary  to  be 
so  large ;  but  in  1837,  Poe  and  his  child- wife,  Virginia 
Clemm,  shepherded  by  Mrs.  Clemm, 

"Dearer  than  the  mother  I  knew 

By  that  infinity  with  which  my  wife 

Was  dearer  to  my  soul  than  its  soul-life," 

begin  their  pilgrimage  to  New  York.  From  now  till 
the  end  it  was  to  be  only  a  checkered  Grub  Street 
trail  for  Poe.  He  did  not  make  his  living  by  his  stor 
ies  or  by  his  poems ;  he  made  it,  such  as  it  was,  by 
critical  hackwork  done  at  odd  times  for  journals  and 
newspapers.  He  toiled  terribly,  for  the  cult  of  per- 


THE  WORLD-AUTHOR  3 

fectfon  drove  or  drew  him  in  every  task.  After  a 
year  in  New  York  they  move  to  Philadelphia  where 
they  remain  from  1838  to  1844.  The  last  move  was 
back  again  to  New  York.  Here  in  1845,  on  tne 
appearance  of  The  Raven,  Poe  found  himself  famous. 
But  Virginia's  death  in  1847  and  his  own  desperate 
illness  dashed  whatever  hopes  he  may  have  had  of 
ultimate  happiness  in  the  little  Fordham  home  and 
another  move  is  planned,  that  to  Richmond.  But  the 
end  came  midway  on  October  7,  1849.  After  the  har 
rowing1  termination  of  his  engagement  to  Sarah  Helen 
Whitman,  of  Providence,  he  had  paid  a  happy  visit 
of  renewal  to  Richmond  and  was  soon  engaged  to 
Mrs.  Sarah  E.  Shelton,  the  Miss  Royster  of  his  uni 
versity  days.  He  was  on  his  way  to  New  York  to 
bring  Mrs.  Clemm  back  to  Richmond  to  attend  the 
wedding  and  to  share  the  joy  of  a  settled  home  at 
last,  when  he  was  found  unconscious  at  Ryan's  Fourth 
Ward  Polls  in  Baltimore  and  taken  at  once  to  the 
Washington  Medical  College.  Early  Sunday  morn 
ing,  wrote  Doctor  J.  J.  Moran,  "A  very  decided  change 
began  to  affect  him.  Having  become  enfeebled  from 
exertion,  he  became  quiet  and  seemed  to  rest  for  a 
short  time ;  then  gently  moving  his  head,  he  said, 
'Lord,  help  my  poor  soul,'  and  expired." 

II 

The  story  is  pitiful  enough  if  we  end  it,  as  men 
thought  it  was  ended,  on  that  October  afternoon  that 
saw  Poe  laid  beside  his  grandfather  at  the  corner  of 
Fayette  and  Greene  Streets.  But  to  know  Poe  we 
must  follow  him  not  to  his  death  but  to  his  coronation 


' 


4  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

in  1909.  That  year  marked  his  centennial,  as  it 
marked  the  centennial  of  Lincoln,  Holmes,  Darwin, 
Gladstone,  Tennyson,  Chopin,  and  Gogol.  It  was 
then  that  historians  looked  back  over  the  century  and 
attempted  a  fresh  appraisal  of  the  men  who  had  now 
rounded  out  their  first  hundred  years.  If  the  name 
of  Poe  did  not  lead  all  the  rest,  it  was  surpassed  by 
none  in  the  interest  awakened,  in  the  international 
acclaim  rendered,  and  in  a  certain  recognized  indebted 
ness  for  thought  and  vision  and  craftsmanship.  At 
the  University  of  Virginia,  in  Baltimore,  in  New 
York,  in  London,  in  Paris,  in  Madrid,  and  in  Berlin, 
Poe's  birthyear  was  celebrated  by  memorial  meetings 
and  centennial  articles  as  the  birthyear  of  no  other 
American  poet  or  prose-writer  had  ever  been  celebrated 
before. 

"It  is  surely  a  somewhat  striking  fact,"  said  The 
Edinburgh  Reviezv,  for  January,  1910,  "that,  of 
authors  born  in  America,  Poe  is  the  only  one  to  whom 
the  term  'world-author'  can  with  any  propriety  be 
applied."  No,  there  are  others.  Franklin,  Cooper, 
Emerson,  Longfellow,  and  Mark  Twain  are  world- 
authors;  and  Walt  Whitman,  Joel  Chandler  Harris, 
William  James  in  a  narrower  sense,  and  O.  Henry 
are  fast  becoming  world-authors.  But  it  is  none  the 
less  true  that  the  title  belongs  preeminently  to  Poe, 
His  appeal  as  poet  and  story-teller,  the  universality  of 
his  themes,  the  purity  of  his  style,  his  studied  avoid 
ance  of  slang  and  localism,  his  wealth  of  sheer  intellect 
and  his  equal  dowry  of  constructive  imagination,  to 
gether  with  his  almost  uncanny  feeling  for  form  and 
color,  for  the  fitting  melody  and  the  enhancing  back 
ground,  these  put  him  in  a  class  alone,  and  these  have 


THE  WORLD-AUTHOR  5 

given  him  a  recognition  in  foreign  lands  not  equalled 
by  any  other  American  writer. 

The  story  of  his  conquest  of  world  opinion  can  be 
told  only  in  outline.  It  is  a  story,  however,  more 
dramatic  in  interest  than  any  that  he  himself  wrote. 
The  American  is  not  to  be  envied  who  does  not  feel  a 
patriotic  pride  in  the  career  of  an  author  who,  if  he 
could  not  lift  himself  above  the  handicaps  of  habit  and 
ill  health  and  poverty,  yet  drove  through  them,  and 
gave  to  the  outside  world  its  first  and  most  lasting 
conception  of  Americanism  as  literature.  To  know 
Poe  one  must  know  this  larger  story. 

It  was  Russia,  not  France,  that  took  the  initiative 
in  Europeanizing  Poe's  fame.  "Casual  translations 
from  Poe,"  says  Abraham  Yarmolinsky,1  "began  to 
appear  in  leading  Russian  periodicals  as  early  as  the 
late  thirties."  But  Poe  knew  nothing  of  this.  Several 
years  later  he  was  called  "an  unknown  writer"  even 
in  England.  He  had  questioned  Dickens  about  the 
prospects  of  republication  in  London,  and  Dickens  had 
written  as  late  as  1842:  "The  only  consolation  I  can 
give  you  is  that  I  do  not  believe  any  collection  of  de 
tached  pieces  by  an  unknown  writer,  even  though  he 
were  an  Englishman,  would  be  at  all  likely  to  find  a 
publisher  in  this  metropolis  just  now." 

The  popularity  of  Poe  in  Russia  seems  to  have 
been  continuous  and  cumulative.  "The  first  name  a 
Russian  is  most  likely  to  mention,"  continues  Yar 
molinsky,  "when  the  conversation  turns  to  American 
literature,  is  that  of  'mad  Edgar/  It  is  Poe  that  has 
come  to  be  popularly  identified  in  Russia  with  the 
American  literary  genius  in  its  highest  achievements. 

1See  The  Bookman,  N.  Y.,  September,  1916. 


6  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Poe's  popularity  in  Russia  is  hard  to  overrate.  He  is 
known  not  only  as  a  teller  of  strange,  unforgettable 
tales  and  of  what  a  Russian  critic  calls  'philosophical 
fables,  which  hypnotise  both  our  senses  and  our  mind/ 
but  also  as  a  poet  who  has  discovered  new  islands  of 
beauty.  Russian  literature  possesses  a  truly  remark 
able  translation  of  Poe's  complete  poetical  works, 
which  closely  follows  the  metre  of  the  original.  This 
is  perhaps  the  most  adequate  transposition  of  Poe's 
poetry  yet  produced  in  any  language.'' 

The  translator  thus  referred  to  is  Constantine  Bal- 
mont,2  the  poet,  who  has  also  translated  Whitman's 
Leaves  of  Grass  into  Russian.  Whitman,  says  Bal- 
mont,  is  the  South  Pole.  "But  Edgar  Poe  is  the 
North  Pole  and  all  the  southern  lands  which  one 
passes  on  one's  way  to  the  North  Pole.  Edgar  Poe 
is  the  sweetest  sound  of  the  lute  and  the  most  pas 
sionate  sob  of  the  violin.  He  is  sensation  exalted  to 
the  state  of  crystal  serenity,  an  enchanted  gorgeous 

hall  ending  with  a  magical  mirror Edgar  Poe 

is  the  furnace  of  self-knowledge.  He  is  our  elder 
brother  the  beloved  Solitary  One,  and  we  sorely 
grieve  that  we  are  not  able  to  sail  up  the  river  ot 
years  and  join  him,  all  of  us,  a  faithful  band,  now  so 
numerous,  him,  our  king,  who  at  that  time  was  de 
serted,  in  the  dreadful  moment  of  his  great  struggle. 
Peace,  peace  be  with  him,  our  fair  angel  of  sorrow. 
He  lives  among  us,  in  our  most  delicate  sensations, 
in  the  mad  outcries  of  our  sorrow,  in  the  sonorous 


2It  will  be  remembered  that  Rachmaninoff's  symphony, 
"The  Bells,"  heard  in  New  York  and  Philadelphia  in  Feb 
ruary,  1920,  was  based  on  Balmont's  translation  of  Poe's 
poem. 


THE  WORLD-AUTHOR  7 

rhythms  of  our  songs,  in  rhymes  final  and  initial,  in 
the  beautiful  gestures  of  the  young  girl  who  thinks 
of  him." 

'Toe  is  regarded  in  Germany,"  says  Doctor  Georg 
Edward,3  himself  a  distinguished  German  poet  and 
critic,  "as  the  typical  and  characteristic  American 
author."  If  the  German  attitude  has  been  less  devo 
tional  than  that  of  France  or  Russia  it  has  at  least 
been  more  dissertational,  the  number  of  special  studies 
that  appeared  in  1909  far  surpassing  those  that  ap 
peared  in  any  other  country.  Five  years  after  Poe's 
death  a  leading  German  review  declared  that  his 
name  "was  bound  to  live  in  the  annals  of  American 
literature."  Since  then  Poe's  stories  have  been  trans 
lated  into  all  the  German  popular  collections  of  world 
literature — Reclam,  Hendcl,  Cotta,  Spemann,  Meyer, 
and  others ;  and  his  poems  have  had  an  almost  equal 
vogue.  It  was  in  1860  that  Friedrich  Spielhagen,  the 
German  Balmont  as  Balmont  was  the  Russian  Baude 
laire  and  Baudelaire  the  French  Ingram,  published  in 
Euro  pa  a  notable  study  of  Poe  whom  he  called  "the 
greatest  lyric  singer  that  America  has  produced." 
There  has  been  no  diminution  of  German  interest  in 
Poe  since  1860,  and  the  German  contention  that  Poe 
is  representatively  American  rather  than  distinctively 
un-American  seems  to  me  one  of  the  most  valid  con 
tributions  to  Poe  criticism:  yet  made. 

But  German  criticism  errs,  I  think,  in  its  insistence 
on  the  supposed  debt  that  Poe  owed  to  German  litera 
ture  and  especially  to  Hoffmann.  No  indebtedness 

3See  The  Book  of  the  Poe  Centenary,  University  of  Vir 
ginia,  1909,  p.  74- 


8  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

can  be  traced.  Poe  could  not  read  German  and,  if 
he  could,  the  native  temper  of  his  mind  was  such  as 
to  make  him  independent  of  Hoffmann  and  the  Hoff 
mann  school.  Nor  is  there  the  analogy  that  the  Ger 
mans  assert  between  Poe,  the  writer,  and  Bocklin,  the 
Swiss  painter.  Their  ideals  were  different,  their 
methods  divergent,  their  results  antipodal.  Compari 
son  between  the  two  leads  only  to  contrast. 

An  undesigned  tribute  to  Poe's  vogue  in  Germany 
may  be  mentioned  in  passing.  It  was  my  privilege  to 
conduct  a  Poe  Seminar  at  the  University  of  Berlin 
during  the  winter  of  19101911.  "Whom  do  you  con 
sider  the  most  famous  woman  born  in  America?" 
asked  a  German  woman  who  was  also  a  student  of 
American  history.  After  some  hesitation  I  replied 
that  in  my  judgment  the  choice  would  lie  between 
Pocahontas  and  Dolly  Madison.  "But  what  would 
your  answer  be?"  I  asked.  "Why,0  she  replied,  "I 
should  have  said  Annabel  Lee."  Another  uninten 
tional  tribute  to  Poe,  to  the  haunting  but  elusive 
melody  of  one  of  his  refrains,  is  found  in  Theodor 
Etzel's  centennial  translation  of  'The  Raven.41  The 
translator  was  determined  to  preserve  the  long  o 
sound  which  reappears  four  times  in  each  stanza  and 
culminates  in  the  sonorous  recurrence  of  "Nevermore." 
But  "Nevermore"  is  not  German  and  "Nimmermehr," 
which  is  German,  is  short,  jerky,  and  unrelated  to  the 
coveted  long  o  sound.  The  reader  will  hardly  believe 
that  the  translator  solves  the  difficulty  by  making  the 
raven  say  "Nie  du  Thor,"  "Never,  you  fool,"  in  answer 
to  every  question  put  to  him  by  the  disconsolate  lover. 


4See  Edgar  Allan  Poes  Gedichte,  uebertragen  von  Theo 
dor  Etzel,  Mnnchen  und  Leipzig,  1909. 


THE  WORLD-AUTHOR  9 

Is  there  in  all  the  literature  of  translation  a  more 
dolorous  example  of  the  sacrifice  of  sense  to  sound, 
of  mood  to  melody,  of  reason  to  rime,  than  these  words 
furnish?  But  Poe  would  have  enjoyed  it,  for  it  meant 
the  triumph  of  his  favorite  vowel  over  obstacles  that 
might  well  have  daunted  the  master  himself.5 

Among  the  Latin  countries,  Italy  seems  to  have 
been  tardiest  in  translating  Poe,  though  his  influence 
had  already  pervaded  Italy  through  the  French  trans 
lations  of  Baudelaire.  "My  guess  is  rather  uncer 
tain,"  writes  Professor  C.  H.  Grandgent,  of  Harvard, 
"as  such  guesses  must  be ;  but  I  should  be  inclined  to 
rank  Poe  as  third  in  Italy,  preceded  by  Cooper  and 
Longfellow."  Professor  Ernest  H.  Wilkins,  of  the 
University  of  Chicago,  would  substitute  Whitman  for 
Cooper:  "It  may  fairly  be  said,  I  think,  that  Poe  and 
Longfellow  are  the  two  American  writers  best  known 
to  Italian  readers  in  general  and  that  they  are  equally 
well  known.  In  Italian  critical  opinion  Poe  and  Whit 
man  are  regarded  as  being  the  two  most  important 
American  writers  and  as  being  of  equal  importance." 
Felice  Ferrero,  the  brother  of  the  great  historian, 
puts  Poe  first:  "It  is  probably  correct,  in  a  certain 
sense,  to  say  that  Poe  is  more  widely  known  in  Italy 
than  any  other  American  writer ;  but  I  doubt  whether 
one  could  say  that  he  is  a  much  read  author.  Amer 
ican  literature  is  a  terra  incognita  to  the  Italian  reader. 
Knowledge  of  English  is  not  sufficiently  spread  in 


5Etzel's  translation  of  The  Raven  is  picked  out  for  spec 
ial  commendation  by  Fritz  Hippe  in  his  Edgar  Allan  Poes 
Lyrik  in  Dcutschland  (1913).  "He  has  succeeded/'  says 
Hippe,  "as  no  one  else  has  succeeded,  in  reproducing  almost 
completely  in  German  the  refrain  'Nevermore'  through  the 
German  'Nie  du  Thor.' " 


io  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Italy  to  enable  people  of  culture  to  enjoy  the  American 
authors  in  the  original  text,  and  very  few  translations 
had  been  published  before  the  War.  Most  of  the 
Italian  acquaintance  with  American  literature  has 
been  made  indirectly  through  French  translations. 
The  popularity  of  Poe  in  France,  therefore,  explains 
why  Poe  is  better  known  in  Italy  than  other  American 
writers.  My  first  reading  of  Poe's  Conies  extraord'm- 
aires  was  in  a  French  translation,  there  being  at  that 
time  no  Italian  translation  at  all." 

But  Poe  did  not  lack  for  translators  after  the  start 
was  once  made.  An  Italian  version  of  his  stories, 
Stone  incredibili  di  Ed  gar  do  Poe,  appeared  in  1869, 
another  in  1876,  and  two  in  1885.  The  Narrative  of 
A.  Gordon  Pym  followed  in  1887.  The  Raven  was 
translated  into  Italian  verse  in  1890  by  Guido  Menasci, 
and  in  1892  Ulysse  Ortensi,  heeding  the  desire 
rather  than  the  warning  of  Baudelaire,  translated  all 
of  Poe's  major  poems  into  musical  Italian  prose.6 

Italian  art  has  also  felt  the  impress  of  Poe's  genius. 
It  is  well  known  that  Gaetano  Previati,  whose  influ 
ence  has 'been  potent  on  the  modern  school  of  Italian 
painters,  found  more  inspiration  for  his  brush  in  the 


6Among  the  more  important  treatments  of  Poe  by  Italian 
scholars  may  be  mentioned  "I  poeti  americani,"  by  Enrico 
Nencioni  (Nuova  Antologia,  August  16,  1885)  ;  "L'  estetica 
di  Edgardo  Poe,"  by  P.  Jannaccone  (Nuova  Antologia,  July 
15,  1895)  ;  "II  vero  Edgardo  Poe"  with  translations  of  many 
of  the  poems,  by  Raffaele  Bresciano  (Palermo-Roma,  1904)  ; 
and  an  unsigned  article  on  the  Poe  centenary  that  appeared 
in  Nuova  Antologia  for  February  I,  1909.  "America  and 
England,"  says  the  latter,  "are  celebrating  the  centenary  of  a 
writer  whose  fame  is  growing  more  and  more,  Edgar  Allan 
Poe.  The  country  of  the  great  poet  has  already  several  times 
revised  its  opinion  of  this  son  who  highly  honors  it,  and  each 
revision  represents  an  approach  to  truth  and  justice." 


THE  WORLD-AUTHOR  n 

writings  of  Poe  than  in  the  pages  of  any  other  genius, 
ancient  or  modern.  Though  Poe's  works  are,  as  we 
have  seen,  everywhere  accessible  in  Italian,  Previati 
prefers  "the  author's  native  language  to  the  uncer 
tainties  that  might  arise  in  translation."  In  fact  the 
purity  and  vividness  of  Poe's  language  are  such  that 
he  is  often  used  in  foreign  lands  as  the  standard  of 
classic  English.  "Are  you  familiar  with  the  works  of 
Edgar  Allan  Poe?"  Doctor  Inazo  Nitobe,  the  famous 
Japanese  scholar,  was  asked.  "Familiar  with  them !" 
he  replied.  "We  learn  English  in  Japan  from  The 
Raven  and  The  Gold-Bug." 

It  is  by  no  means  certain  that  Poe  is  better  known 
in  Spain  than  in  Italy  but  the  facts  are  more  accessible. 
The  distinguished  Spanish  novelist,  Vicente  Blasco 
Ibanez,  when  visiting  the  Poe  Cottage  at  Fordham  in 
November,  1919,  said :  "Poe  is  my  spiritual  and  liter 
ary  father.  His  name  is  as  famous  in  Europe  as  Lin 
coln's."  In  Spain  it  is  probably  more  famous.  "Of 
all  the  American  writers  whose  works  have  reached 
Spain,"  says  John  DeLancey  Ferguson,7  "Poe  is 
probably  the  most  significant.  Though  in  mere  num 
ber  of  translations  he  is  surpassed  by  Cooper,  he  has 
received  far  more  respectful  treatment  than  has  ever 
been  accorded  to  the  older  man,  and  from  the  time  of 
his  first  introduction  to  the  present  day  the  Spaniards 
have  shown  a  persistent  and  steadily  increasing  inter 
est  in  his  work."  It  may  be  added  that  in  Doctor 
Ferguson's  appended  bibliography  of  Spanish  transla 
tions  and  critical  articles  Poe  occupies  as  much  space 


7See   Doctor   Ferguson's   American   Literature   in   Spain 
(1916),  New  York. 


12  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

as  Cooper  and  Hawthorne  combined  and  more  than 
twice  the  number  of  pages  filled  by  Longfellow. 

The  first  Spanish  edition  of  Poe's  tales  appeared 
in  Madrid  in  1858.  The  introduction  is  by  Doctor 
Nicasio  Landa  who,  amid  much  that  is  bizarre  in 
biography  and  comment,  declares  rightly  enough  that 
Poe  "was  the  first  to  exploit  the  marvelous  in  the  field 
of  science."  There  is  as  much  difference,  Doctor 
Landa  holds,  between  Poe's  tales  and  ordinary  tales 
of  witchcraft  as  there  is  between  chemistry  and 
alchemy — not  a  bad  comparison.  He  also  contests 
Baudelaire's  statement  that  Poe's  wretchedness  was 
due  to  the  crudeness  of  American  democracy.  No, 
says  Doctor  Landa,  there  "never  was  a  country  in 
which  freedom  of  thought  was  permitted  to  carry  it 
self  to  such  extremes  as  in  America,"  and  he  cites  in 
triumphant  illustration  the  unimpeded  preachments  of 
"Mistress  Bloummer"  and  the  popular  vagaries  of 
"the  saints  of  last  day." 

Of  Poe's  command  of  English  a  later  Spanish 
critic,  D.  A.  H.  Cata,  writes  as  follows:  "Never 
since  Shakespeare  has  the  English  language  been 
handled  with  such  art.  Poe  had  the  secret  of  euphony 
and  fine  phrase ;  between  his  thoughts  and  his  sen 
tences  there  is  always  an  indissoluble  connection.  He 
knew  the  inevitable  word,  the  mitigating  word,  the 
consoling  word.  He  knew  what  things  make  us  laugh 
or  weep  and,  master  of  inspiration  and  of  language,  he 
could  always  dominate  our  will,  making  our  spirit  run 
the  whole  gamut  of  emotion  from  grotesque  merri 
ment  and  vaguely  sad  placidity  up  to  the  brutal  and 
agonizing  horror  of  intolerable  fear.  He  has  made  us 
yearn  with  his  heroes,  weep  with  their  misfortunes, 


THE  WORLD- AUTHOR  13 

and  fear  with  their  forebodings.  His  work  will  endure 
forever,  because  it  is  the  child  of  beauty  and  of  grief." 
Still  more  acute  and  illuminating  is  the  remark  of 
Jose  de  Castro  y  Serrano,  the  Spanish  novelist.  "Not 
long  ago,"  he  writes  in  1871,  "a  great  New- World 
genius  (the  Anglo-American  Poe)  astonished  the 
present  generation  with  his  extraordinary  tales  (His- 
torias  extraord inarias) .  These  were  based  on  a 
philosophical  principle,  the  sublimation,  that  is,  of  the 
marvelous,  a  principle  which  the  human  heart  never 
has  abandoned  and  never  will  abandon ;  and  the  skilful 
narrator  was  able  to  stir  and  to  terrify  the  literary 
world  despite  the  fact  that  Hoffmann  had  written 
many  years  before.  The  reason  is  that  Hoffmann 
started  from  the  fantastic  in  order  to  arrive  naturally 
at  the  marvelous,  while  Poe  starts  in  search  of  the 
marvelous  from  the  threshold  of  the  real  and  actual.' 

The  Spanish  centennial  article  is  contributed  by' 
Angel  Guerra8,  who  has  been  rated  as  "one  of  the 
four  greatest  living  Spanish  critics."  He  finds  the 
same  stubborn  hostility  to  Poe  in  America  that  has 
existed  from  the  beginning.  In  his  native  land  "Poe 
has  had  to  conquer  a  renown  inch  by  inch  which  our 
old  Europe  would  have  sowed  on  all  the  winds  of 
fame."  He  remains  solitary,  unrelated,  un-American, 
not  reached  by  influences  from  the  writers  of  his  own 
land  or  from,  those  of  England.  "When  they  buried 
the  remains  of  that  unfortunate  man,  the  Yankees 
thought  they  had  buried  in  oblivion  the  talent  of  their 
greatest,  their  most  original,  their  most  profound  poet, 


8See  "El  centenario  de  Edgard  Allan  Poe"   (La  Espana 
Moderna,  April,  1909). 


14  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

not  excluding  Longfellow  and  Whitman.  A  huge 
silence  enveloped  the  name  of  Edgar  Poe  in  the  United 

States But  the  glory  of  the  final  rehabilitation 

of  the  poet  was  reserved  for  a  European,  for  Baude 
laire,  his  spiritual  brother.  Edgar  Poe's  native  land 
is  America ;  his  spiritual  birth  must  be  sought  in  Ger 
many;  his  elevation  to  immortality,  with  justice  ren 
dered  to  his  supreme  merits,  is  the  gift  of  generous 
France." 

Whether  Poe's  popularity  in  Latin-American  coun 
tries  is  a  derivative  of  his  popularity  in  Spain  or  harks 
back  for  its  original  impulse  to  Baudelaire's  work,  it 
would  be  hazardous  to  say.  Certain  it  is,  however, 
that  no  other  American  author  has  so  fertilized  the 
intellect  and  imagination  of  Central  and  South  Amer 
ica  as  has  Poe.  This  was  the  prompt  testimony  of 
Ruben  Dario,  Nicaragua's  greatest  poet,  if  not  the 
greatest  poet  of  Latin  America,  during  his  visit  to  the 
United  States  in  the  spring  of  1915.  Dario,  by  the 
way,  prefixed  a  promising  though  fragmentary  study 
to  the  volume  of  Poe's  poems  published  in  Madrid  in 
1909,  the  best  translation  in  the  volume  being  that  of 
The  Raven  by  the  Venezuelan  poet,  Perez  Bonalde. 
"Poe  is  very  well  known  in  our  Latin-American 
countries,"  writes  from  Buenos  Aires  the  distinguished 
South  American  scholar,  A.  Abeledo,  "The  Raven  and 
The  Bells  having  passed  into  our  school  textbooks." 

But,  as  Guerra  has  said,  Poe's  elevation  to  immor 
tality  is  in  a  way  "the  gift  of  generous  France,"  and  it 
was  the  gift  of  France  chiefly  through  Baudelaire  and 
Mallarme.  "It  would  be  too  much  to  say,"  writes 
Henri  Potez,9  "that  Edgar  Poe  begat  Baudelaire  and 


9See  "Edgar  Poe  et  Jules  Verne"  (La  Revue,  Paris,  May 
1909). 


THE  WORLD- AUTHOR  15 

that  Baudelaire  begat  almost  all  contemporary  poetry ; 
but  the  statement  would  contain  much  truth."  When 
Remy  de  Gourmont  was  asked  what  external  influ 
ences  he  deemed  paramount  in  French  literature,  he 
replied:  "Browning  and  Pater  but,  above  all,  Poe, — 
Poe,  through  his  son,  Mallarme."  No  closer  or  more 
interesting  literary  affinity  has  ever  existed  than  that 
between  Edgar  Allan  Poe  and  Charles  Baudelaire. 
The  chief  difference  was  expressed  by  Baudelaire 
himself:  "There  is  not  in  all  of  Poe's  work  a  single 
passage  that  tends  to  lubricity  or  even  to  sensual  pleas 
ure."  Barring  this  difference,  which  is  fundamental, 
Baudelaire  adopted  all  of  Poe's  critical  dicta  and  de 
fended  them  to  the  last  with  a  loyalty  that  would 
brook  not  the  slightest  disagreement ;  he  translated 
Poe's  stories  into  French  "with  an  identification  of 
style  and  thought  so  exact,"  says  Gautier,  "that  they 
seem  original  works  rather  than  translations ;"  he  lived 
to  see  Poe  enthroned  as  one  of  the  sovereigns  of 
European  literature ;  and,  when  nearing  his  own  end, 
he  made  a  solemn  resolve  "to  pray  to  God  every 
morning,  to  God  who  is  the  receptacle  of  all  strength 
and  all  justice,  to  my  father,  to  Marietta,  and  to  Poe, 
as  intercessors." 

"It  was  in  1846  or  1847,"  Baudelaire  wrote  to 
Armarid  Fraisse,  "that  I  became  acquainted  with  a 
few  fragments  of  Edgar  Poe.10  I  experienced  a 
peculiar  emotion.  As  his  complete  works  were  not 

10These  fragments  were  probably,  in  part  at  least,  The 
Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue,  translated  by  his  intimate  friend, 
Felix  Tournachon,  better  known  as  "Nadar."  Tournachon 
died  in  1910  leaving  unpublished  memoirs.  He  was  an  inter 
esting  man.  In  the  early  fifties  he  broached  the  idea  of  a 
heavier-than-air  flying  machine,  and  in  1863  he  carried  his 
wife  and  friends  in  a  balloon  from  Paris  to  Hanover. 


16  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

collected  till  after  his  death,  I  had  the  patience  to  make 
friends  with  some  Americans  living  in  Paris  so  as  to 
borrow  from  them  collections  of  Journals  that  had 
been  edited  by  Poe.  And  then  I  found — believe  me 
or  not,  as  you  will — poems  and  tales  of  which  I  had 
already  a  vague,  confused,  and  ill-ordered  idea  and 
which  Poe  had  known  how  to  arrange  and  bring  to 
perfection."  Six  years  later  he  writes :  "I  am  accused 
of  imitating  Edgar  Poe.  Do  you  know  why  I  trans 
lated  Poe  with  such  patience?  Because  he  was  like 
me.  The  first  time  that  I  opened  a  book  of  his,  I  saw 
with  terror  and  delight  not  only  subjects  I  had  dreamed 
of,  but  sentences  that  I  had  thought  of  and  that  he  had 
written  twenty  years  before." 

Baudelaire's  first  volume  of  translations  from  Poe, 
Histoires  extraordinaires,  appeared  in  1856.  Others 
followed  till  two  years  before  his  death  in  1867. 
Many  competitors  have  entered  the  lists  against  him 
but  he  has  had  no  rivals.  Baudelaire  has,  in  fact,  ele 
vated  and  standardized  the  art  of  putting  the  prose  of 
one  language  into  the  prose  of  another.  One  curious 
minor  mistake  may  be  mentioned.  Jupiter,  the  negro 
in  The  Gold-Bug,  says  that  his  master  was  "as  white 
as  a  gose  [ghost]."  Baudelaire  makes  him  "as  white 
as  a  goose,"  "pale  comme  une  oie."  Also  in  The 
Raven,  almost  the  only  poem  of  Poe's  that  Baudelaire 
translated,  "Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven"  is 
rendered,  awkwardly,  "Bien  que  ta  tete  soit  sans 
huppe  et  sans  cimier." 

What  Baudelaire  did  for  Poe's  prose,  Stephana 
Mallarme  and  Gabriel  Mourey  did,  though  not  with 
equal  finality,  for  his  verse.11  In  a  letter  written  to 

"Mourey's    Potsies    completes    d'Edgar    Poe,    1889,    re- 


THE  WORLD-AUTHOR  17 

Sarah  Helen  Whitman  on  April  4,  1876,  Mallarme 
says :  "Whatever  is  done  to  honor  the  memory  of  a 
genius  the  most  truly  divine  the  world  has  seen,  ought 
it  not  at  first  to  obtain  your  sanction  ?  Such  of  Poe's 
works  as  our  great  Baudelaire  has  left  untranslated, 
that  is  to  say,  the  poems  and  many  of  the  critical  frag 
ments,  I  hope  to  make  known  to  France."  Mallarme 
was  a  symbolist  and  the  prince  of  symbolists.  His 
motto  was,  "To  name  is  to  destroy,  to  suggest  is  to 
create."  He  was  spokesman  for  the  subconscious. 
Every  clear  idea,  he  thought,  had  long  ago  been  ex 
pressed  ;  what  remained  was  to  give  utterance  to  the 
subliminal.  Edmund  Gosse  said  of  him :  "Language 
was  given  to  Mallarme  to  conceal  definite  thought,  to 
draw  the  eye  away  from  the  object.  He  aims  at  il 
lusion  and  wraps  mystery  around  his  simplest  utter 
ance."  Mallarme's  passion  for  perfection,  in  other 
words,  brought  its  own  defeat ;  it  splintered  his  effort 
into  fragments,  shining  fragments  but  fragments  none 
the  less.  In  his  quest  for  symbolism  the  word  rather 
than  the  idea  became  the  unit. 

These  qualities  of  style  are  necessarily  kept  in 
check  to  a  degree  in  Mallarme's  prose  versions  of  Poe's 
poems ;  but,  with  all  their  perfection  of  word  equiva 
lence,  these  rimeless  and  rhythmless  lines,  these  stanzas 
that  lack  the  old  integrations,  seem  almost  a  parody  to 


mained  the  only  complete  translation  of  Poe's  poems  into 
French  until  the  appearance  in  1908  of  Victor  Orban's 
Poesies  completes  d' Edgar  Poe.  Mourey's  later  edition  of 
1910  is  prefaced  by  a  letter  from  J.  H.  Ingram.  It  contains 
also  the  Philosophy  of  Composition  as  well  as  biographical 
and  bibliographical  notes. 

Excellent   translations    of   Poe's   poems   have   also   been 
made  by  £mile  Lauvriere. 


i8  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

the  reader  whose  ear  has  long  been  accustomed  to  the 
haunting  melodies  of  the  original.  But  that  Mal 
larme's  translations  are  read  and  enjoyed  in  France  is 
in  itself  a  testimony  to  the  innate  beauty,  the  residual 
charm,  of  Poe's  poetic  structures,  when  bereft  of  those 
formal  elements  in  which  their  beauty  and  charm  have 
hitherto  been  thought  so  largely  to  consist.  It  is  hard 
to  think  of  The  Raven  or  of  Ulalume  without  those 
interreticulations  of  sound  and  form,  those  reciproc 
ities  of  repetition  and  parallelism,  which  in  Poe's 
hands  fused  them  into  artistic  unity ;  but  in  Mallarme's 
versions,  however  exquisite  the  prose,  it  is  prose  still. 
That  Poe  has  stood  the  test  is  a  noteworthy  tribute  to 
the  intrinsic  worth  and  fundamental  texture  of  his 
poetic  material.  One  unexpected  result  of  Mallarme's 
work  has  been  to  put  Poe,  in  the  eyes  of  Frenchmen  at 
least,  side  by  side  with  Whitman  in  the  ranks  of  the 
vers  librists.  Strange  bedfellows,  these!  "Yet  it  is 
true,'*  says  Caroline  Ticknor,12  "that  Mallarme's  trans 
lations  of  Poe  set  the  pace  for  the  new  school  from 
which  the  exponents  of  vers  libre  assuredly  derive 
their  inspiration." 

Of  the  many  French  biographies  of  Poe  the  most 
elaborate  is  that  by  Lauvriere.13  But  it  is  a  study  in 
pathology.  Scholarly,  painstaking,  accurate,  and  even 
sympathetic  in  its  statement  of  facts,  its  inferences  do 
not  carry  conviction.  Morbidite,  alienisme,  degener- 
escence,  decadence — these  do  not  belong  to  Poe. 
They  can  be  read  into  his  life  and  genius  only  by  a 
studied  selection  of  incidents  and  an  equally  studied 


12Poe's  Helen  (1916),  New  York,  p.  276. 
™Edgar   Poe,   sa  vie   et   son   oeuvre,    Paris,    1904.     The 
book  contains  732  pages. 


THE  WORLD-AUTHOR  19 

rejection  of  those  that  do  not  fit.  More  of  this  in  the 
next  chapter  but  let  it  be  said  here  that  the  French 
pendulum  has  already  begun  to  swing  in  the  opposite 
direction.  The  latest  French  life  of  Poe,  that  by 
Andre  Fontainas,14  takes  issue  squarely  with  Lauv- 
riere  and  pleads  eloquently  and  justly  for  a  fairer  and 
more  comprehensive  judgment  of  all  the  facts. 

Whatever  may  be  the  verdict  of  the  future  on  the 
nature  of  genius  in  general  and  of  Poe's  genius  in  par 
ticular — and  we  confidently  believe  that  literature  as 
pathology  has  had  its  day — no  one  can  question  Poe's 
primacy  in  France.  "His  verse,"  says  Teodor  de  Wy- 
zewa,  "is  the  most  magnificent  which  the  English  lan 
guage  possesses."  When  George  Brandes  was  asked 
more  than  twenty  years  ago  to  name  the  foreign 
writers  who  had  done  most  to  mould  French  lit 
erature,  he  mentioned  first  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  adding 
as  secondary  influences  Tolstoi,  Dostoyevsky,  Heine, 
and  Shelley.  Summing  up  his  centennial  survey  of 
Poe's  position  in  France,  Curtis  Hidden  Page15  writes : 
"Poe  is  the  one  American  writer  who  has  been  ac 
cepted  and  acclaimed  by  the  majority  of  intelligent 
Frenchmen."  The  last  word  is  from  Andre  Fon 
tainas,16  poet,  essayist,  historian,  biographer,  and  trans 
lator:  "No  writer  of  the  English  language  has  pene 
trated  so  profoundly  the  consciousness  of  the  writers 
of  all  lands  as  has  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  In  France  he  is 
as  truly  alive  today  as  the  most  living  of  French 
poets." 

14La  vie  d'  Edgar  A.  Poe,  Paris,  1919.  Of  its  290  pages 
27  are  given  over  to  a  translation  of  the  poems  of  Mrs.  Whit 
man  that  were  inspired  by  admiration  for  Poe. 

15The  Evening  Post,  N.  Y.,  Jan.  16,  1909. 

lQLa  vie  d'  Edgar  A.  Poe,  Paris,  1919,  p.  247. 


20  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

From  England  came  the  first  biography  of  Poe 
characterized  by  fairness,  by  wide  investigation,  by  un 
wearied  collection  of  facts  and  manuscripts,  and  by  an 
ardent  though  not  intemperate  admiration  of  the  man 
and  his  work.  From  1862  till  his  death  in  1916  the 
central  interest  of  John  H.  Ingram  was  the  vindication 
of  Poe's  memory  from  the  slanders  of  Griswold  and 
the  establishment  of  the  poet's  fame  on  the  secure  basis 
of  an  accurate  and  adequate  text.  Ingram  has  been 
called17  "the  discourager  of  Poe  biographies."  It  is 
true  that  he  soon  came  to  regard  Poe  as  preempted 
territory  but  only  when  some  luckless  biographer  had 
assailed  Ingram  himself  or  given  evidence  of  inept 
itude  in  recording  or  interpreting  the  facts  of  Poe's 
life.  Ingram  was  a  tactless  man  as  his  correspond 
ence  with  Mrs.  Whitman  shows ;  but  with  those  whom 
he  knew  personally,  with  Swinburne,  Morris,  Rossetti, 
Mallarme,  and  Mourey,  Ingram  was  an  enthusiastic 
crusader  in  a  cause  that  he  regarded  as  sacred.  He 
had  a  right  to  say  as  he  did  say18  a  few  years  before 
his  death :  "I  have  labored  for  the  glory  of  Poe  and  I 
have  defended  his  reputation  better  than  he  himself 
would  have  done,  for  I  knew  better  than  he  who  were 
his  friends  and  who  his  enemies.  My  effort  has  borne 
fruit,  and  the  halo  of  glory  about  the  poet  has  not 
ceased  to  grow  brighter." 

Ingram's  first  vindicatory  Memoir  appeared  in 
1874 ;  but  from  Swinburne  two  years  before  had  come 
the  first  clear  note  of  authoritative  lyric  recognition  of 

17See  the  article  by  Caroline  Ticknor  in  The  Bookman, 
N.  Y.,  Sept,  1916. 

18See  his  Lettre-Preface  in  Mourey's  Poesies  completes 
d'  Edgar  Poe  (1910). 


THE  WORLD- AUTHOR  21 

Poe  that  had  been  heard  from  England.  And,  to  the 
last,  Swinburne  was  always  ready  to  take  up  the  cud 
gels  for  the  American  poet  and  to  give  a  reason  for  his 
championship.  "Once  as  yet,  and  once  only,"  he 
wrote,19  "has  there  sounded  out  of  it  all  [American 
literature]  one  pure  note  of  original  song — worth 
singing,  and  echoed  from  the  singing  of  no  other  man ; 
a  note  of  song  neither  wide  nor  deep,  but  utterly  true, 
rich,  clear,  and  native  to  the  singer;  the  short,  ex 
quisite  music,  subtle  and  simple  and  somber  and  sweet, 
of  Edgar  Poe."  According  to  Swinburne,  the  com 
parison  of  Poe  with  Hawthorne  is  the  comparison  of 
the  complete  with  the  half  man  of  genius.  "I  was 
nearly  tempted  the  other  day,"  he  declares,20  "to  write 
a  rapid  parallel  or  contrast  between  Hawthorne — the 
half  man  of  genius  who  never  could  carry  out  an  idea 
or  work  it  through  to  the  full  result — and  Poe,  the 
complete  man  of  genius  (however  flawed  and  clouded 
at  times)  who  always  worked  out  his  ideas  thoroughly, 
and  made  something  solid,  rounded,  and  durable  of 
them — not  a  mist  wreath  or  a  waterfall." 

In  a  later  letter  to  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman, 
Swinburne  refuses  to  put  Thanatopsis  or  The  Com 
memoration  Ode  in  quite  the  same  class  with  Poe's 
verse,  and  gives  his  reasons.  "I  believe  you  know  my 
theory,"  he  says,  "that  nothing  which  can  possibly  be 
as  well  said  in  prose  ought  ever  to  be  said  in  verse." 
August  meditation  and  grave  patriotic  feeling  are 
good  in  their  way,  he  contends,  but  it  is  not  the  way  of 
song.  "I  must  say  that  while  I  appreciate  (I  hope) 

lgUnder  the  Microscope    (1872). 

20See  The  Letters  of  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne,  2 
vols.,  edited  by  Edmund  Gosse  and  Thomas  Tames  Wise 


et, 
m-  / 

*f      , 

ite    . 
*       \ 


22  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

the  respective  excellence  of  Mr.  Bryant's  Thanatopsls 
and  of  Mr.  Lowell's  Commemoration  Ode,  I  can  not 
say  that  either  of  them  leaves  in  my  ear  the  echo  of  a 
single  note  of  song.  It  is  excellent  good  speech,  but 
if  given  us  as  song,  its  first  and  last  duty  is  to  sing. 
The  one  is  most  august  meditation,  the  other  a  noble 
expression  of  deep  and  grave  patriotic  feeling  on  a 
supreme  national  occasion;  but  the  thing  more  neces 
sary,  though  it  may  be  less  noble  than  these,  is  the 
pulse,  the  fire,  the  passion  of  music — the  quality  of  a 
singer,  not  of  a  solititary  philosopher  or  a  patriotic 
orator.  Now,  when  Whitman  is  not  speaking  bad 
prose  he  sings,  and  when  he  sings  at  all  he  sings  well. 
Mr.  Longfellow  has  a  pretty  little  pipe  of  his  own,  but 
surely  it  is  very  thin  and  reedy.  Again,  whatever  may 
be  Mr.  Emerson's  merits,  to  talk  of  his  Poetry  seems 
to  me  like  talking  of  the  scholarship  of  a  child  who  has 
not  learned  its  letters." 

But  the  praise  that  would  have  meant  most  to  the 
living  Poe  came  from  Tennyson.  Poe's  admiration 
for  Tennyson  knew  no  bounds,  though  he  did  not  live 
to  read  the  poems  on  which  the  laureate's  fame  is  now 
seen  to  rest  most  securely.  "I  am  not  sure,"  he  once 
wrote,  "that  Tennyson  is  not  the  greatest  of  poets. . .  . 
By  the  enjoyment  or  non-enjoyment  of  the  Morte  d' 
Arthur  or  of  the  (Enone  I  would  test  any  man's  ideal 
sense."  He  loved  to  recite  from  The  Princess  the 
song  beginning, 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
and  used  to  say  that  the  words, 

When  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square, 


THE  WORLD-AUTHOR  23 

were  "unsurpassed  by  any  image  expressed  in  writ 
ing."  But  when  Tennyson  was  asked  in  1875  to  write 
an  epitaph  of  one  line  for  Poe's  monument  in  West 
minster  Churchyard,  Baltimore,  he  said  to  his  son: 
"How  can  so  strange  and  so  fine  a  genius,  and  so  sad 
a  life,  be  exprest  and  comprest  in  one  line  ?"  He  wrote, 
howrever,  to  the  committee :  "I  have  long  been  acquaint 
ed  with  Poe's  works,  and  am  an  admirer  of  them."  But 
when  later  he  came  to  pass  a  more  matured  judgment 
on  Poe  as  poet  and  prose-writer,  he  said:21  "I  know 
several  striking  poems  by  American  poets,  but  I  think 
that  Edgar  Poe  is  (taking  his  poetry  and  prose  to 
gether)  the  most  original  American  genius." 

Tennyson's  opinion  is  shared  by  the  representative 
English  critics.  "Poe  is  the  greatest  writer  in  prose 
fiction  whom  America  has  produced,"  wrote  Andrew 
Lang.22  "He  has  left  a  body  of  widely  various  criti 
cism  which,  as  such,  will  better  stand  critical  examina 
tion  today,"  writes  J.  M.  Robertson,23  "than  any  simi 
lar  work  produced  in  England  or  America  in  his  time." 
And  Edmund  Gosse24  in  his  centennial  article  says  of 
Poe,  the  poet :  "He  was  the  pioneer  of  a  school  which 
has  spread  its  influence  to  the  confines  of  the  civilised 
world,  and  is  now  revolutionising  literature." 


^Alfred  Lord  Tennyson,  a  Memoir  by  his  son,  vol.  II,  pp. 
292-293  (1897).  This  was  said  in  1883. 

22In  his  edition  of  The  Poems  of  Poe  (1881). 

23Robertson's  essay  on  Poe,  first  published  in  Our  Cor^- 
ner,  London,  1885,  and  republished  in  New  Essays  To-war ds 
a  Critical  Method,  London  and  New  York,  1897,  seems  to  me 
on  the  whole  the  ablest  brief  treatment  of  Poe  (fifty-four 
pages)  yet  published  in  any  language.  It  has  been  /epro- 
duced  in  Specimens  of  Modern  English  Literary  Criticism, 
edited  by  William  T.  Brewster,  New  York,  1907. 

^Contemporary  Review,  February,  1909. 


24  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

III 

This  survey  of  Poe  as  an  international  influence  is 
not  meant  to  anticipate  your  own  opinion  or  to  coerce 
your  own  judgment,  but  to  free  it.  It  is  meant  to  fur 
nish  perspective  and  background  for  the  study  of  a 
writer  who  in  American  criticism  has  been  tradi 
tionally  represented  not  as  a  world-author  but  as  nar 
row  and  even  sectional  in  his  appeal.  It  is  an  attempt 
to  let  1849  near  tne  voices  of  1909. 

It  was  an  evil  day  for  American  literary  criticism, 
for  what  we  call  Americanism  in  the  larger  sense, 
when  the  great  Emerson  curtly  dismissed  Poe  as  "the 
jingle  man."  He  was  biting  on  granite,  as  was  Poe 
when  he  dubbed  Emerson  a  "mystic  for  mysticism's 
sake/'  Both  would  have  retracted  gladly  could  they 
have  re-weighed  their  verdicts  in  the  scales  of  the  im 
partial  years.  Jingles  can  not  be  translated  into  po 
tent  and  radiating  inspirations  in  other  tongues;  and 
the  mystic  for  mysticism's  sake  can  not  enrich  the  eth 
ical  standards  of  a  reading  world. 

When  we  hear  that  Henry  James  pronounced  Poe's 
poems  "very  valueless  verse,"  it  is  surely  worth  while 
to  know  that  the  world  at  large  does  not  think  so; 
when  John  Burroughs  calls  Poe's  verse  "empty  of 
thought,"  it  is  worth  asking  if  the  defect  may  not  lie 
in  the  critic  rather  than  in  the  poet;  when  Brownell 
asserts  that  Poe's  writings,  whether  prose  or  verse, 
"lack  the  elements  not  only  of  great  but  of  real  litera 
ture,"  when  he  pleads  that  Poe  should  be  denied  a 
place  in  the  American  Hall  of  Fame,  it  is  well  to  hear 
the  multitudinous  laughter  of  a  world  that  has  already 
enthroned  him  in  its  own  more  exclusive  Hall  of  Fame. 


THE  WORLD-AUTHOR  25 

Poe  has  been  studied  as  an  effect,  the  effect  of  un 
fortunate  inheritance,  of  cramping  poverty,  of  uncon 
genial  environment.  But  let  us  study  him  as  a  cause. 
A  voice  is  studied  backward  from  its  reach  and  re 
sonance.  A  projectile  force  is  studied  not  merely  in 
its  constituents  but  by  its  power  to  project.  "By  their 
fruits  ye  shall  know  them,"  not  by  their  roots.  Doc 
tor  Samuel  Johnson  once  said  that  he  never  knew  that 
he  had  succeeded  "until  he  felt  the  rebound."  We 
have  tried  to  estimate,  though  very  cursorily,  the  re 
bound  of  Poe's  effort.  Ben  Jonson  phrased  it  bet 
ter  still :  "Men,  and  almost  all  sorts  of  creatures,  have 
their  reputation  by  distance;  rivers,  the  farther  they 
run  and  the  more  from  their  spring,  the  broader  they 
are,  and  the  greater."  Poe  has  traveled  far  from  his 
spring.  Are  we  wrong  in  approaching  the  study  of 
him  with  at  least  the  provisional  supposition  that  there 
is  a  certain  breadth,  even  a  certain  greatness  in  him? 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  MAN 

I 

IF,  to  know  Poe,  we  must  know  him  as  a  world- 
author,  it  is  equally  necessary  that  we  know  him  as  a 
man.  His  world-fame  is,  after  all,  but  the  reach  of 
his  genius ;  it  is  not  its  source  or  matrix.  These  are 
to  be  sought  in  the  man  himself,  in  his  reaction  to  the 
life  about  him,  in  the  temper  and  quality  of  his  thought 
'about  things  unliterary  as  well  as  literary.  In  a  word, 
Poe's  personality  is  not  only  essential  in  the  interpre 
tation  of  his  work ;  it  is,  unfortunately,  that  part  of  the 
man  that  has  been  consistently  ignored  or  as  consist 
ently  misrepresented.  The  common  view  of  Poe  is 
that  he  had  no  personality.  He  had  temperament ;  he 
had  genius ;  he  had  individuality.  But  that  richer 
combination  that  we  call  personality,  that  coordination 
of  thought  and  mood  and  conduct,  of  social  action  and 
reaction,  of  daily  interest  and  aim,  this  finds  no  por 
trayal  in  the  biographies  of  Poe.  Instead,  we  are  told 
that  Poe  alone  among  American  writers  was  utterly 
unrelated  to  time  and  place ;  that  he  saw  only  through 
a  telescope ;  that  for  him  the  contemporary  did  not  ex 
ist  ;  that,  like  the  lady  of  Shalott,  peering  into  a  mirror 
with  her  back  to  the  realities  of  life,  Poe  was  a 
dreamer  and  nothing  but  a  dreamer. 

Let  us  try  to  break  away  from  the  stereotyped  bi 
ographies  of  Poe.  They  confuse  the  exceptional  with 
the  characteristic  in  his  life,  and  they  exalt  particular 

26 


THE  MAN  37 

moments  and  moods  into  fixed  crystallizations  of  habit 
or  impulse.  Gestures  are  regarded  as  attitudes,  and  a 
single  incident  is  made  the  scales  in  which  an  entire 
life  is  weighed.  Let  us  take  Poe's  great  phrase,  "to 
tality  of  effect,"  and  look  at  his  life  as  a  whole. 

So  far  from  being  unrelated  to  the  problems  and 
interests  of  his  time,  Poe  seems  to  me  the  one  man  in 
American  literature  from  whose  writings  a  history  of 
the  essential  thought-currents  of  the  time  could  be 
garnered.  But  by  his  writings  I  do  not  mean  pri 
marily  his  poems  or  his  stories;  in  these  he  deliber 
ately  turned  away  from  the  things  of  every-day  life 
or  so  subtly  transfused  them  as  to  make  the  distillation 
not  easily  identifiable  as  concrete  incident  or  personal 
experience.  I  mean,  above  all,  the  criticisms  that  he 
passed  on  the  men  and  women  and  things  and  themes 
that  made  up  the  life  round  about  him.  In  the  only 
complete  edition  of  his  works,  the  Virginia  Edition,1 
containing  seventeen  volumes,  only  one  volume  con 
tains  Poe's  poetry,  five  volumes  his  stories,  while  nine 
volumes  contain  his  criticisms,  his  essays,  his  miscel 
lanies,  his  marginalia,  and  his  letters.  In  these  nine 
volumes  lie  scattered  the  elements  which  combined 
will  summon  back  to  us  Poe,  the  man,  as  he  can  not 
be  recalled  from  the  volumes  that  reveal  him  as  the 
self-conscious  and  creative  artist. 

II 

All  the  information  that  we  have  about  Poe  goes  to 
show  that  he  observed  closely  and  accurately.  Mere 
dreamers  do  not.  If  he  saw  through  a  telescope  it  was 

1By  James  A,  Harrison,  New  York,  1902, 


28  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

only  that  he  might  extend  the  knowledge  already 
gained  through  a  microscope.  Lowell  said  of  him : 

"He  combines  in  a  very  remarkable  manner  two 
faculties  which  are  seldom  found  united;  a  power  of 
influencing  the  mind  of  the  reader  by  the  impalpable 
shadows  of  mystery,  and  a  minuteness  of  detail  which 
does  not  leave  a  pin  or  a  button  unnoticed." 

But  Lowell  was  speaking  of  Poe,  the  artist ;  he  did 
not  know  that  Poe,  the  man,  was  as  minutely  ob 
servant  and  retentive  as  Poe,  the  weaver  of  narrative 
spells.  In  a  letter  to  Mrs.  M.  L.  Shew,  who  had  asked 
him  to  make  some  art  purchases  for  her,  Poe  writes : 

"During  my  first  call  at  your  house  after  my  Vir 
ginia's  death,  I  noticed  with  so  much  pleasure  the 
large  painting  over  the  piano,  which  is  a  masterpiece 
indeed;  and  I  noticed  the  size  of  all  your  paintings, 
the  scrolls  instead  of  set  figures  of  the  drawing-room 
carpet,  the  soft  effect  of  the  window  shades,  also  the 

crimson  and  gold I  was  charmed  to  see  the 

harp  and  piano  uncovered.  The  pictures  of  Raphael 
and  the  'The  Cavalier'  I  shall  never  forget  their  soft 
ness  and  beauty !  The  guitar  with  the  blue  ribbon, 
music-stand  and  antique  jars!" 

There  are  two  room  interiors  that  always  recur  to 
me  as  I  try  to  make  clear  in  my  own  mind  the  dif 
ference  between  Poe,  the  artist,  and  Poe,  the  man.  It 
must  be  remembered  that  Poe's  philosophy  of  art  im 
pelled  him  to  beauty  plus  strangeness.  This  element 
of  the  strange,  the  eerie,  the  arrestive-because-not- 
seen-before,  is  present  in  all  of  his  art  creations.  It  is 


THE  MAN  29 

not  accidental ;  it  is  a  part  of  a  studied  and  predeter 
mined  effect.  Bacon  had  said,  "There  is  no  excellent 
beauty  that  hath  not  some  strangeness  in  the  propor 
tion,"  and  Poe  quotes  and  re-quotes  the  saying  both  as 
defense  and  as  goal  of  his  own  practise.  The  readeF""! 
is  justified  in  saying  of  Poe's  studied  descriptions  and 
of  his  fictive  characters  that  they  are  not  accurate 
transcripts  from  real  life,  but  he  is  not  justified  in  say 
ing  that  Poe  was  not  an  accurate  observer.  Sensi 
tiveness  to  the  abnormal  presupposes  an  even  greater 
sensitiveness  to  the  normal.  Everything  that  is 
strange  to  us  in  Poe's  creations  was  strange  first  to 
him.  There  is  never  for  a  moment  in  his  work  any 
suggestion  of  inability  to  distinguish  between  the  nor 
mal  and  the  abnormal,  between  the  natural  and  the  bi 
zarre.  'Toe  was  not  a  victim  of  delusions,"  says  Curtis 
Hidden  Page,  "but  a  creature  of  illusions."  He  loved 
mystery  and  mystification  but  he  was  not  a  mystic.  ^J 

Note  now  the  studied  strangeness  that  haunts  the 
interior  of  Roderick  Usher's  room  in  The  Fall  of  the 
House  Usher : 

"The  room  in  which  I  found  myself  was  very  large 
and  lofty.  The  windows  were  long,  narrow,  and 
pointed,  and  at  so  vast  a  distance  from  the  black 
oaken  floor  as  to  be  altogether  inaccessible  from  with 
in.  Feeble  gleams  of  encrimsoned  light  made  their 
way  through  the  trellised  panes,  and  served  to  render 
sufficiently  distinct  the  more  prominent  objects 
around;  the  eye,  however,  struggled  in  vain  to  reach 
the  remoter  angles  of  the  chamber,  or  the  recesses  of 
the  vaulted  and  fretted  ceiling.  Dark  draperies  hung 
upon  the  walls.  The  general  furniture  was  profuse, 


30  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

comfortless,  antique,  and  tattered.  Many  books  and 
musical  instruments  lay  scattered  about,  but  failed  to 
give  any  vitality  to  the  scene.  I  felt  that  I  breathed 
an  atmosphere  of  sorrow.  An  air  of  stern,  deep,  and 
irredeemable  gloom  hung  over  and  pervaded  all." 

If  Poe,  the  conscious  artist,  speaks  in  Usher's 
room,  surely  Poe,  the  man,  the  observer,  the  lover  of 
beauty  without  strangeness,  speaks  in  the  description 
of  the  parlor  of  Landor's  Cottage: 

"Nothing  could  be  more  rigorously  simple  than  the 
furniture  of  the  parlour.  On  the  floor  was  an  ingrain 
carpet,  of  excellent  texture — a  white  ground,  spotted 
with  small  circular  green  figures.  At  the  windows 
were  curtains  of  snowy  white  jaconet  muslin;  they 
were  tolerably  full,  and  hung  decisively,  perhaps 
rather  formally,  in  sharp  parallel  plaits  to  the  floor. 
The  walls  were  papered  with  a  French  paper  of  great 
delicacy — a  silver  ground,  with  a  faint  green  cord 
running  zigzag  throughout.  Its  expanse  was  relieved 
merely  by  three  of  Julien's  exquisite  lithographs  a 
trois  crayons,  fastened  to  the  wall  without  frames. 
One  of  these  drawings  was  a  scene  of  Oriental  luxury, 
or  rather  voluptuousness ;  another  was  a  'carnival 
piece'  spirited  beyond  compare ;  the  third  was  a  Greek 
female  head ;  a  face  so  divinely  beautiful,  and  yet  of  an 
expression  so  provokingly  indeterminate,  never  before 
arrested  my  attention. 

"The  more  substantial  furniture  consisted  of  a 
round  table,  a  few  chairs  (including  a  large  rocking- 
chair)  and  a  sofa,  or  rather  'settee' ;  its  material  was 
plain  maple  painted  a  creamy  white,  slightly  inter- 


THE  MAN  31 

striped  with  green — the  seat  of  cane.  The  chairs  and 
table  were  'to  match' ;  but  the  forms  of  all  had  evi 
dently  been  designed  by  the  same  brain  which  planned 
'the  grounds';  it  is  impossible  to  imagine  anything 
more  graceful. 

"On  the  table  were  a  few  books ;  a  large,  square 
crystal  bottle  of  some  novel  perfume ;  a  plain,  ground- 
glass  astral  (not  solar)  lamp,  with  an  Italian  shade ; 
and  a  large  vase  of  resplendently-blooming  flowers. 
Flowers  indeed,  of  gorgeous  colours  and  delicate 
odour,  formed  the  sole  mere  decoration  of  the  apart 
ment.  The  fireplace  was  nearly  filled  with  a  vase  of 
brilliant  geranium.  On  a  triangular  shelf  in  each 
angle  of  the  room  stood  also  a  similar  vase,  varied  only 
as  to  its  lovely  contents.  One  or  two  smaller  bou 
quets  adorned  the  mantel;  and  late  violets  clustered 
about  the  opened  windows." 

The  same  contrast  is  seen  between  the  characters 
that  drift  or  shimmer  through  Poe's  poems  and  sto 
ries  and  those  photographic  portraits  that  he  has  lefF") 
us  of  the  men  and  women  that  he  had  actually  met. 
These  show  a  clearness  of  instant  vision,  an  ability  to 
see  the  object  as  in  itself  it  really  is,  that  critics  have 
denied  to  the  creator  of  Ligeia,  Morella,  Annabel  Lee, 
Usher,  and  others.  But  in  the  latter  Poe's  purpose 
was  to  make  an  artistic  use  of  indefinitiveness,  "a  sug 
gestive  indefinitiveness,"  as  he  said  of  The  Lady  of 
Shalott,  "with  a  view  of  bringing  about  a  definitive- 
ness  of  vague  and  therefore  of  spiritual  effect."  TurnJ 
now  to  The  Literati  of  New  York  and  note  the  clear- 
cut  pen-pictures  that  Poe  made  of  the  writers  that  he 
had  seen  and  met.  William  Cullen  Bryant  he  had  not 


32  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

met  but  he  had  passed  him  on  the  street  and  had  heard 
him  speak.  Is  there  anywhere  such  a  picture  of  Bry 
ant  as  Poe  has  drawn  in  this  sketch? 

"He  is  now  fifty-two  years  of  age.  In  height,  he  is 
perhaps  five  feet  nine.  His  frame  is  rather  robust. 
His  features  are  large  but  thin.  His  countenance  is 
sallow,  nearly  bloodless.  His  eyes  are  piercing  gray, 
deep  set,  with  large  projecting  eyebrows.  His  mouth 
is  wide  and  massive,  the  expression  of  the  smile  hard, 
cold — even  sardonic.  The  forehead  is  broad,  with 
prominent  organs  of  ideality ;  a  good  deal  bald ;  the 
hair  thin  and  grayish,  as  are  also  the  whiskers,  which 
he  wears  in  a  simple  style.  His  bearing  is  quite  dis 
tinguished,  full  of  the  aristocracy  of  intellect.  In  gen 
eral,  he  looks  in  better  health  than  before  his  last  visit 
to  England.  He  seems  active — physically  and  morally 
energetic.  His  dress  is  plain  to  the  extreme  of  sim 
plicity,  although  of  late  there  is  a  certain  degree  of 
Anglicism  about  it. 

"In  character  no  man  stands  more  loftily  than 
Bryant.  The  peculiarly  melancholy  expression  of  his 
countenance  has  caused  him  to  be  accused  of  harsh 
ness,  or  coldness  of  heart.  Never  was  there  a  greater 
mistake.  His  soul  is  charity  itself,  in  all  respects 
generous  and  noble.  His  manners  are  undoubtedly 
reserved." 

In  the  letter  that  Poe  wrote  to  Mrs.  Clemm  as  soon 
as  he  and  Virginia  had  arrived  in  New  York  from 
Philadelphia  there  is  a  solicitous  affection  that  can  not 
be  paraphrased.  There  is  a  pathos,  too,  beyond  the 
reach  of  conscious  art.  But  is  there  not  also  a  mi- 


THE  MAN  33 

nuteness  of  detail,  an  eager,  loving,  childlike  recording 
of  little  things  that  nothing  seems  to  escape?  The 
author  of  The  Raven  and  Ulalume  and  The  Sleeper 
may  have  been  a  dreamer  but  it  was  not  a  dreamer 
that  penned  these  lines : 

"New  York,  Sunday  Morning, 
"April  7,  [1844],  just  after  breakfast. 

"MY  DEAR  MUDDY— We  have  just  this  minute 
done  breakfast,  and  I  now  sit  down  to  write  you 
about  everything.  I  can't  pay  for  the  letter,  because 
the  P.  O.  won't  be  open  to-day.  In  the  first  place 
we  arrived  safe  at  Walnut  St.  wharf.  The  driver 
wanted  to  make  me  pay  a  dollar,  but  I  wouldn't. 
Then  I  had  to  pay  a  boy  a  levy  to  put  the  trunks  in  the 
baggage  car.  In  the  meantime  I  took  Sis  [Virginia] 
in  the  Depot  Hotel.  It  was  only  a  quarter  past  six, 
and  we  had  to  wait  till  seven.  We  saw  the  'Ledger' 
and  'Times' — nothing  in  either — a  few  words  of  no 
account  in  the  'Chronicle/  We  started  in  good  spir 
its,  but  did  not  get  here  until  nearly  three  o'clock. 
We  went  in  the  cars  to  Amboy,  about  forty  miles  from 
N.  York,  and  then  took  the  steamboat  the  rest  of  the 
way.  Sissy  coughed  none  at  all.  When  we  got  to  the 
wharf  it  was  raining  hard.  I  left  her  on  board  the 
boat,  after  putting  the  trunks  in  the  Ladies'  cabin,  and 
set  off  to  buy  an  umbrella  and  look  for  a  boarding- 
house.  I  met  a  man  selling  umbrellas,  and  bought 
one  for  twenty- five  cents. 

"Then  I  went  up  Greenwich  St.  and  soon  found  a 
boarding-house.  It  was  just  before  you  get  to  Cedar 
St.,  on  the  west  side  going  up — left-hand  side.  It  has 
brown  stone  steps,  with  a  porch  with  brown  pillars. 


34  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

'Morrison'  is  the  name  on  the  door.  I  made  a  bargain 
in  a  few  minutes  and  then  got  a  hack  and  went  for  Sis. 
I  was  not  gone  more  than  half  an  hour,  and  she  was 
quite  astonished  to  see  me  back  so  soon.  She  didn't 
expect  me  for  an  hour.  There  were  two  other  ladies 
waiting  on  board — so  she  wasn't  very  lonely.  When 
we  got  to  the  house  we  had  to  wait  about  half  an  hour 
before  the  room  was  ready.  The  house  is  old  and 
looks  buggy  [The  letter  is  cut  here  for  the  signature 
on  the  other  side.]  the  cheapest  board  I  ever  knew, 
taking  into  consideration  the  central  situation  and  the 
living.  I  wish  Kate  [Catterina,  the  cat]  could  see  it — 
she  would  faint.  Last  night,  for  supper,  we  had  the 
nicest  tea  you  ever  drank,  strong  and  hot,  wheat 
bread,  rye  bread — cheese — tea-cakes  (elegant),  a  great 
dish  (two  dishes)  of  elegant  ham  and  two  of  cold  veal, 
piled  up  like  a  mountain  and  large  slices — three  dishes 
of  the  cakes  and  everything  in  the  greatest  profusion. 
No  fear  of  starving  here.  The  landlady  seemed  as  if  she 
couldn't  press  us  enough,  and  we  were  at  home  di 
rectly.  Her  husband  is  living  with  her — a  fat,  good- 
natured  old  soul.  There  are  eight  or  ten  boarders — 
two  or  three  of  them  ladies — two  servants.  For 
breakfast  we  had  excellent-flavored  coffee,  hot  and 
strong — not  very  clear  and  no  great  deal  of  cream — • 
veal  cutlets,  elegant  ham  and  eggs  and  nice  bread  and 
butter.  I  never  sat  down  to  a  more  plentiful  or  a 
nicer  breakfast.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  eggs 
— and  the  great  dishes  of  meat.  I  ate  the  first  hearty 
breakfast  I  have  eaten  since  I  left  our  little  home.  Sis 
is  delighted,  and  we  are  both  in  excellent  spirits.  She 
has  coughed  hardly  any  and  had  no  night  sweat.  She 
is  now  busy  mending  my  pants  which  I  tore  against  a 
nail. 


THE  MAN  35 

"I  went  out  last  night  and  bought  a  skein  of  silk,  a 
skein  of  thread,  two  buttons,  a  pair  of  slippers,  and  a 
tin  pan  for  the  stove.  The  fire  kept  in  all  night.  We 
have  now  got  four  dollars  and  a  half  left.  To-mor 
row  I  am  going  to  try  and  borrow  three  dollars,  so  that 
I  may  have  a  fortnight  to  go  upon.  I  feel  in  excellent 
spirits,  and  haven't  drank  a  drop — so  that  I  hope  soon 
to  get  out  of  trouble.  The  very  instant  I  scrape  to 
gether  enough  money  I  will  sent  it  on.  You  can't 
imagine  how  much  we  both  do  miss  you.  Sissy  had 
a  hearty  cry  last  night,  because  you  and  Catterina 
weren't  here.  We  are  resolved  to  get  two  rooms  the 
first  moment  we  can.  In  the  meantime  it  is  impos 
sible  we  could  be  more  comfortable  or  more  at  home 
than  we  are.  It  looks  as  if  it  were  going  to  clear  up 
now.  Be  sure  and  go  to  the  P.  O.  and  have  my  let 
ters  forwarded.  As  soon  as  I  write  Lowell's  article, 
I  will  send  it  to  you,  and  get  you  to  get  the  money 
from  Graham.  Give  our  best  love  to  C." 

But  Poe  the  man  is  seen  not  merely  in  the  un 
clouded  clearness  with  which  he  saw  and  reproduced 
the  men  and  things  of  his  time  but  more  especially  in 
his  reaction  to  the  ideas  and  institutions  that  environed 
him.  So  far  from  holding  himself  apart  and  aloof, 
he  fronted  the  old  and  the  new  of  his  day  with  an 
eager  philosophic  interest  that  would  have  kept  his 
name  afloat,  if  not  alive,  even  though  he  had  written 
no  work  of  creative  genius.  "Poe  had  no  sweep  of 
intellectual  outlook,"  says  Brander  Matthews,  "no  in 
terest  in  the  world  of  ideas,  as  he  had  no  interest  in 
the  world  of  affairs."  A  verdict  of  this  sort  can  be 
accounted  for  only  on  the  supposition  that  its  author 


36  EDGAR  ALLAN  POK 

had  not  read  that  part  of  Poe's  writing  which,  if  not 
destined  for  immortality,  is  peculiarly  freighted  with 
autobiography. 

One  of  the  larger  questions  that  pressed  for  solu 
tion  in  Poe's  lifetime  was  that  of  public  education  in 
the  South.  Poe  had  himself  applied  for  a  position  as 
teacher  in  a  public  school  of  Baltimore  early  in  1835. 
"In  my  present  circumstances,"  he  writes  to  his  friend, 
J.  P.  Kennedy,  "such  a  position  would  be  most  desir 
able,  and  if  your  interest  could  obtain  it  for  me,  I 
would  always  remember  your  kindness  with  the 
deepest  gratitude."  He  was  unsuccessful  in  his  appli 
cation  but,  what  is  far  more  important,  he  became  a 
resolute  champion  of  a  public  school  system  for  every 
southern  state,  a  system  that  should  have  as  its  pin 
nacle  a  state  university.  This  was  Jefferson's  plan, 
though  many  years  were  to  pass  before  it  was  to  find 
even  partial  fulfillment.  Poe  had  hardly  moved  to 
Richmond  before  we  find  him  urging  upon  Virginians 
"the  establishment  throughout  the  country  of  district 
schools  upon  a  plan  of  organization  similar  to  that  of 
our  New  England  friends."  He  does  not  believe,  as 
William  Wirt  believed,  that  as  need  arises  rich  men 
will  establish  universities  without  the  aid  of  state  gov 
ernments,  and  he  points  proudly  to  Virginia,  "where, 
notwithstanding  the  extent  of  private  opulence  and  the 
disadvantages  under  which  the  community  so  long 
labored  from  a  want  of  regular  and  systematic  in 
struction,  it  was  the  government  which  was  finally 
compelled,  and  not  private  societies  which  were  in 
duced,  to  provide  establishments  for  effecting  the 
great  end." 

At  times  Poe  suggests  new  subjects  for  the  school 


THE  MAN  37 

curriculum.  After  proving,  by  his  own  amazing  pow 
ers  of  analysis,  that  "human  ingenuity  cannot  concoct 
a  cipher  which  human  ingenuity  cannot  resolve,"  he 
adds: 

"It  may  be  observed,  generally,  that  in  such  investi 
gations  the  analytic  ability  is  very  forcibly  called  into 
action;  and,  for  this  reason,  cryptographical  solutions 
might  with  great  propriety  be  introduced  into  acade 
mies  as  the  means  of  giving  tone  to  the  most  important 
of  the  powers  of  the  mind." 

The  time  may  come,  he  thinks,  when  the  student 
will  be  taught  to  read  not  by  words  or  paragraphs  but 
by  pages : 

"A  deep-rooted  and  strictly  continuous  habit  of 
reading  will,  with  certain  classes  of  intellect,  result  in 
an  instinctive  and  seemingly  magnetic  appreciation  of 
a  thing  written ;  and  now  the  student  reads  by  pages 
just  as  other  men  by  words.  Long  years  to  come, 
with  a  careful  analysis  of  the  mental  process,  may 
even  render  this  species  of  appreciation  a  common 
thing.  It  may  be  taught  in  the  schools  of  our  de 
scendants  of  the  tenth  or  twentieth  generation." 

Poe's  own  habit  of  reading  page  by  page  was  that  of 
Theodore  Roosevelt.  "The  child,"  says  Lawrence  F. 
Abbott,2  "reads  laboriously  syllable  by  syllable  or 
word  by  word ;  the  practised  adult  reads  line  by  line ; 
Roosevelt  read  almost  page  by  page  and  yet  remem 
bered  what  he  read." 

^Impressions  of  Theodore  Roosevelt  (1919),  p.  183. 


38  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Another  problem,  more  menacing  and  insistent 
than  that  of  education,  was  the  problem  of  slavery. 
Poe  was  reared  in  a  slave-holding  community ;  he  was 
one  of  the  first  American  writers  to  introduce  a  slave 
and  his  dialect  into  a  short  story ;  and  his  thought  on 
the  great  issue  itself  is  characteristically  matured  and 
original.  In  1836  he  writes : 

"There  is  a  view  of  the  subject  most  deeply  inter 
esting  to  us,  which  we  do  not  think  has  ever  been  pre 
sented  by  any  writer  in  as  high  relief  as  it  deserves. 
We  speak  of  the  moral  influences  flowing  from  the  re 
lation  of  master  and  slave,  and  the  moral  feelings  en 
gendered  and  cultivated  by  it. ...  We  shall  take  leave 
to  speak,  as  of  things  in  esse,  of  a  degree  of  loyal  de 
votion  on  the  part  of  the  slave  to  which  the  white 
man's  heart  is  a  stranger,  and  of  the  master's  recipro 
cal  feeling  of  parental  attachment  to  his  humble  de 
pendent,  equally  incomprehensible  to  him  who  drives  a 
bargain  with  the  cook  who  prepares  his  food,  the  ser 
vant  who  waits  at  his  table,  and  the  nurse  who  dozes 
over  his  sick  bed.  That  these  sentiments  in  the  breast 
of  the  negro  and  his  master  are  stronger  than  they 
would  be  under  like  circumstances  between  individ 
uals  of  the  white  race,  we  believe.  That  they  belong 
to  the  class  of  feelings  'by  which  the  heart  is  made 
better/  we  know.  How  come  they?  They  have 
their  rise  in  the  relation  between  the  infant  and  the 
nurse.  They  are  cultivated  between  him  and  his  fos 
ter  brother.  They  are  cherished  by  the  parents  of 
both.  They  are  fostered  by  the  habit  of  affording 
protection  and  favors  to  the  younger  offspring  of  the 
same  nurse.  They  grow  by  the  habitual  use  of  the 


THE  MAN  39 

word  'my/  used  in  the  language  of  affectionate  ap 
propriation,  long  before  any  idea  of  value  mixes  with 
it.  It  is  a  term  of  endearment.  That  is  an  easy  tran 
sition  by  which  he  who  is  taught  to  call  the  little  negro 
'his,'  in  this  sense  and  because  he  loves  him,  shall 
love  him  because  he  is  his.  The  idea  is  not  new,  that 
our  habits  and  affections  are  reciprocally  cause  and 
effect  of  each  other. 

"But  the  great  teacher  in  this  school  of  feeling  is 
sickness.  In  this  school  we  have  witnessed  scenes  at 
which  even  the  hard  heart  of  a  thorough  bred  philan 
thropist  would  melt.  But  here,  we  shall  be  told,  it  is 
not  humanity,  but  interest  that  prompts.  Be  it  so. 
Our  business  is  not  with  the  cause  but  the  effect. 
But  is  it  interest,  which,  with  assiduous  care,  prolongs 
the  life  of  the  aged  and  decrepid  negro,  who  has  been, 
for  years,  a  burthen?  Is  it  interest  which  labors  to 
rear  the  crippled  or  deformed  urchin,  who  can  never 
be  anything  but  a  burthen — which  carefully  feeds  the 
feeble  lamp  of  life  that,  without  any  appearance  of 
neglect,  might  be  permitted  to  expire  ?  Is  not  the  feel 
ing  more  akin  to  that  parental  aiopifiQ  which,  in 
defiance  of  reason,  is  most  careful  of  the  life  which  is, 
all  the  time,  felt  to  be  a  curse  to  the  possessor?  Are 
such  cases  rare?  They  are  as  rare  as  the  occasions; 
but  let  the  occasion  occur,  and  you  will  see  the  case. 
How  else  is  the  longevity  of  the  negro  proverbial? 
A  negro  who  does  no  work  for  thirty  years!  (and  we 
know  such  examples)  is  it  interest  which  has  length 
ened  out  his  existence?" 

The  argument  does  credit  to  Poe's  heart,  if  not  to 
his  head;  and  the  instances  that  he  later  adduces,  in- 


40  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

stances  that  he  had  himself  witnessed,  of  love  and  de 
votion  at  the  sick  bed  of  master  and  slave,  evince  a 
native  sympathy  and  susceptibility  of  which  Poe's 
stories  give  only  scattered  hints.  Though  abolition 
had  made  but  little  headway  at  this  time,  Poe  seemed 
to  have  an  intuitive  conviction  that  slavery  was 
doomed.  "It  is  a  sort  of  boding,"  he  says,  "that  may 
belong  to  the  family  of  superstitions.  All  vague  and 
undefined  fears,  from  causes  the  nature  of  which  we 
know  not,  the  operations  of  which  we  cannot  stay,  are 
of  that  character." 

Partly  because  of  his  defense  of  slavery  and  partly 
because  of  his  views  on  southern  literature,  the 
charge  has  often  been  made  that  Poe  was  partisan  and 
sectional.  But  he  was  neither.  His  loyalty  to  certain 
definite  principles  of  criticism  is  evident  in  all  that  he 
wrote.  It  was  not  men  or  parties  or  sections  of  the 
country  that  Poe  defended ;  it  was  rather  those  bases 
of  thought  and  feeling  which  had  come  to  have  for 
him  the  authority  of  ultimate  truth.  If  a  southerner 
violates  these  principles  Poe's  blade  pierces  his  armor 
as  surely  as  though  he  were  a  New  England  tran- 
scendentalist  or  incorrigible  abolitionist.  Take  the  case 
of  William  Gilmore  Simms,  the  novelist  and  poet,  of 
South  Carolina.  Poe  is  constantly  complaining  that 
Simms  and  other  writers  not  born  in  New  England 
are  omitted  in  popular  compencliums  of  American  lit 
erature,  but  he  is  unsparing  in  pointing  out  the  defects 
of  Simms  as  a  writer,  defects  which  no  one  questions 
to-day.  Poe's  contention  is  not  that  southern  writers 
are  better  than  others  but  that  they  at  least  deserve 
consideration  in  every  survey  of  American  literature 
that  claims  to  be  representative.  Totality  rather  than 


THE  MAN  41 

personality  is  the  real  issue.  If  New  England  writers 
are  omitted  from  such  surveys  or  inadequately  repre 
sented,  Poe  is  prompt  to  note  the  defect.  When  Gris- 
wold  published  his  famous  Poets  and  Poetry  of 
'America,  in  1842,  Poe  wrote  of  it:  "Perhaps  the  au 
thor,  without  being  aware  of  it  himself,  has  unduly 
favored  the  writers  of  New  England,"  but  he  adds 
that  injustice  has  also  been  done  to  two  New  Eng- 
landers,  Lowell  and  Holmes :  "A  few  years  hence  Mr. 
Griswold  himself  will  be  amazed  that  he  assigned  no 
more  space  to  Lowell  than  to  McLellan,  Tuckerman, 
and  others."  It  is  in  prophecies  of  this  sort,  by  the 
way,  that  Poe's  critical  sagacity  is  seen  at  its  best. 
Lowell  had  written  hardly  anything  when  this  fore 
cast  was  made  but  in  that  little  Poe  had  detected  un 
erringly  the  coming  poet. 

Of  Griswold's  Female  Poets  of  America,  Poe 
writes : 

"We  are  glad,  for  Mr.  Griswold's  sake,  as  well  as 
for  the  interests  of  our  literature  generally,  to  perceive 
that  he  has  been  at  the  pains  of  doing  what  Northern 
critics  seem  to  be  at  great  pains  never  to  do — that  is  to 
say,  he  has  been  at  the  trouble  of  doing  justice,  in 
great  measure,  to  several  poetesses  who  have  not  had 
the  good  fortune  to  be  born  in  the  North.  The  no 
tices  of  the  Misses  Gary,  of  the  Misses  Fuller,  of  the 
sisters  Mrs.  Warfield  and  Mrs.  Lee,  of  Mrs.  Nichols, 
of  Mrs.  Welby,  and  of  Miss  Susan  Archer  Talley,  re 
flect  credit  upon  Mr.  Griswold,  and  show  him  to  be  a 
man  not  more  of  taste  than — shall  we  say  it? — of 
courage.  Let  our  readers  be  assured  that,  (as  matters 
are  managed  among  the  four  or  five  different  cliques 


42  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

who  control  our  whole  literature  in  controlling  the 
larger  portion  of  our  critical  journals,)  it  requires  no 
small  amount  of  courage,  in  an  author  whose  subsist 
ence  lies  in  his  pen,  to  hint,  even,  that  anything  good, 
in  a  literary  way,  can,  by  any  possibility,  exist  out  of 
the  limits  of  a  certain  narrow  territory." 

Everything  that  Poe  said  about  southern  literature 
and  western  literature  was  said  not  with  the  view  of 
unduly  exalting  either  but  of  giving  to  both  a  place  of 
impartial  representation  beside  the  literature  of  New 
England.  When  Whitman  a  generation  later  pleaded 
for  a  literature  that  should  be  commensurate  with 
American  life,  he  was  only  transmitting  the  torch 
lighted  by  Poe. 

But  the  charge  of  intemperate  sectionalism  is 
brought  most  frequently  against  Poe's  criticism  of 
Lowell's  Fable  for  Critics.  "Mr.  Lowell,"  he  writes,  "is 
one  of  the  most  rabid  of  the  Abolition  fanatics  ;  and  no 
southerner  who  does  not  wish  to  be  insulted,  and  at 
the  same  time  revolted  by  a  bigotry  the  most  obsti 
nately  blind  and  deaf,  should  ever  touch  a  volume  by 
this  author."  One  may  well  ask,  What  has  this  to  do 
with  Lowell,  the  poet,  or  Lowell,  the  literary  critic? 
Nothing  whatever.  But  Lowell  had  called  his  Fable 
only  "a  slight  jcu  d'esprif  and  yet  had  introduced 
into  it  such  lines  as, 

Forty  fathers  of  Freedom,  of  whom  twenty  bred 
Their  sons  for  the  rice  swamps  at  so  much  a  head, 
And  their  daughters  for faugh! 

Surely  one  can  not  blame  Poe  for  abdicating  the  role 
of  literary  critic  for  a  moment  and  warning  the  read 
ers  of  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger  of  what  they 


THE  MAN  43 

may  expect  in  a  poem  which  presumably  was  to  deal 
only  with  matters  literary.  He  is  not  striking  beneath 
the  belt:  he  is  warding  off  a  blow  already  aimed  be 
neath  the  belt.  But  the  omission  of  the  anti-southern 
lines  from  the  college  editions  of  Lowell's  poem  makes 
Poe's  reference  seem  an  irrelevant  and  unwarranted 
intrusion  of  sectionalism.  Is  it  not  unfair  and  un- 
American  to  cite  Poe's  outburst  of  indignation  without 
citing  at  the  same  time  the  lines  that  called  it  into 
being?  Poe's  review  of  the  Fable  for  Critics,  read  as 
a  whole,  does  credit  to  his  impartiality  and  to  his  de 
sire  to  see  North,  South,  East,  and  West  justly  repre 
sented  in  a  national  American  literature.  He  begins 
with  a  discussion  of  the  reasons  for  the  absence  of 
satire  in  our  literature : 

"It  seems  to  us  that,  in  America,  we  have  refused  to 
encourage  satire — not  because  what  we  have  had 
touches  us  too  nearly — but  because  it  has  been  too 
pointless  to  touch  us  at  all.  Its  namby-pambyism  has 
arisen,  in  part,  from  the  general  want,  among  our  men 
of  letters,  of  that  minute  polish — of  that  skill  in  details 
— which,  in  combination  with  natural  sarcastic  power, 
satire,  more  than  any  other  form  of  literature,  so  im 
peratively  demands.  In  part,  also,  we  may  attribute 
our  failure  to  the  colonial  sin  of  imitation.  We  con 
tent  ourselves — at  this  point  not  less  supinely  than  at 
all  others — with  doing  what  not  only  has  been  done 
before,  but  what,  however  well  done,  has  yet  been 
done  ad  nauseam.  We  should  not  be  able  to  endure 
infinite  repetitions  of  even  absolute  excellence ;  but 
what  is  'McFingal'  more  than  a  faint  echo  from 
'Hudibras'? — and  what  is  'The  Vision  of  Rubeta' 


44  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

more  than  a  vast  gilded  swill-trough  overflowing  with 
Dunciad  and  water?  Although  we  are  not  all  Archi- 
lochuses,  however — although  we  have  few  pretensions 
to  the  Yjx,ifcvT£<;  Tqi$oe — although,  in  short,  we  are  no 
satirists  ourselves — there  can  be  no  question  that  we 
answer  sufficiently  well  as  subjects  for  satire." 

When  Poe  comes  to  the  lines  about  himself, 

Here  comes  Poe  with  his  Raven,  like  Barnaby  Rudge — 
Three-fifths  of  him  genius,  and  two-fifths  sheer  fudge; 
Who  talks  like  a  book  of  iambs  and  pentameters, 

In  a  way  to  make  all  men  of  common  sense  d n  metres; 

Who  has  written  some  things  far  the  best  of  their  kind ; 
But  somehow  the  heart  seems  squeezed  out  by  the  mind, 

his  objection  is  not  to  Lowell's  fractional  distribu 
tion  of  "genius"  and  "fudge"  but  to  the  omission  of 
all  other  southerners  save  himself : 

"It  is  a  fashion  among  Mr.  Lowell's  set  to  affect  a 
belief  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  Southern  Litera 
ture.  Northerners — people  who  have  really  nothing 
to  speak  of  as  men  of  letters, — are  cited  by  the  dozen, 
and  lauded  by  this  candid  critic  without  stint,  while 
Legare,  Simms,  Longstreet,  and  others  of  equal  note 
are  passed  by  in  contemptuous  silence.  Mr.  L.  can 
not  carry  his  frail  honesty  of  opinion  even  so  far 
south  as  New  York.  All  whom  he  praises  are  Bos- 
tonians.  Other  writers  are  barbarians,  and  satirized 
accordingly — if  mentioned  at  all." 

Yet  in  this  same  review,  one  of  the  last  that  Poe 
wrote,  he  defends  Longfellow  and  Lowell  against  the 
attack  of  Margaret  Fuller : 


THE  MAN  45 

"Messrs.  Longfellow  and  Lowell,  so  pointedly 
picked  out  fcr  abuse  [by  Miss  Fuller]  as  the  worst  of 
our  poets,  are,  upon  the  whole,  perhaps,  our  best — al 
though  Bryant  and  one  or  two  others  are  scarcely 
inferior."3 

The  more  Poe's  Americanism  is  studied  the  less 
restricted  it  will  be  seen  to  be.  "You  are  almost  the 
only  fearless  American  critic,"  Lowell  wrote  him  in 
1842,  and,  when  inviting  him  to  address  the  Boston 
Lyceum,  he  added:  "The  Boston  people  want  a  little 
independent  criticism  vastly."  Poe  was  not  only 
fearless  and  independent ;  he  was  untrammeled  by  lo 
cal  prejudice  and  he  was  singularly  future-minded. 
Our  cause,  he  says,  is  "the  cause  of  a  national  as  dis 
tinguished  from  a  sectional  literature."  He  saw 
clearly  that  America  would  not  always  be  hemmed 
within  its  present  boundaries,  and  he  looked  to  the 
Pacific  as  the  arena  of  our  future  exploits  and  to  "a 
hardy,  effective,  and  well  disciplined  national  navy" 
as  "the  main  prop  of  our  national  power."  Comment 
ing  on  the  "Report  of  the  Committee  on  Naval  Af 
fairs,"  of  March  21,  1836,  he  writes : 

3Stedman's  reference  to  the  clash  between  Poe  and 
Lowell  is  amusing:  "A  speck  of  reservation  spoiled  for  him 
[Poe]  the  fullest  cup  of  esteem,  even  when  tendered  by  the 
most  knightly  and  authoritative  hands.  Lowell's  Fable  for 
Critics,  declaring  'three-fifths  of  him  genius/  gave  him  an 
award  which  ought  to  content  even  an  unreasonable  man.  As 
it  was,  the  good-natured  thrusts  of  one  whose  scholarship  was 
unassailable,  at  his  metrical  and  other  hobbies,  drew  from 
him  a  somewhat  coarse  and  vindictive  review  of  the  whole 
satire."  Poe,  it  must  be  remembered,  did  not  happen  to  be 
long  to  the  "Sweet  Alice"  type,  so  affectingly  portrayed  by 
Thomas  Dunn  English : 

"She  wept  with  delight  when  you  gave  her  a  smile, 
And  trembled  with  grief  at  your  frown." 


46  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

"Our  pride  as  a  vigorous  commercial  empire  sfiould 
stimulate  us  to  become  our  own  pioneers  in  that  vast 
island-studded  ocean,  destined,  it  may  be,  to  become, 
not  only  the  chief  theatre  of  our  traffic,  but  the  arena 
of  our  future  naval  conflicts.  Who  can  say,  viewing 
the  present  rapid  growth  of  our  population,  that  the 
Rocky  Mountains  shall  forever  constitute  the  western 
boundary  of  our  republic,  or  that  it  shall  not  stretch 
its  dominion  from  sea  to  sea?  This  may  not  be  desir 
able,  but  signs  of  the  times  render  it  an  event  by  no 
means  without  the  pale  of  possibility." 

Realizing  that  America  had  followed  in  the  rear  of 
scientific  discovery  when  she  ought  to  have  led  the 
van,  he  pleads  eloquently  for  national  aid  to  scientific 
research : 

"It  is  our  duty,  holding  as  we  do  a  high  rank  in  the 
scale  of  nations,  to  contribute  a  large  share  to  that  ag 
gregate  of  useful  knowledge,  which  is  the  common 
property  of  all.  We  have  astronomers,  mathemati 
cians,  geologists,  botanists,  eminent  professors  in 
every  branch  of  physical  science — we  are  unincum- 
bered  by  the  oppression  of  a  national  debt,  and  are 
free  from  many  other  drawbacks  which  fetter  and 
control  the  measures  of  the  trans-Atlantic  govern 
ments.  We  possess,  as  a  people,  the  mental  elasticity 
which  liberal  institutions  inspire,  and  a  treasury  which 
can  afford  to  remunerate  scientific  research.  Ought 
we  not,  therefore,  to  be  foremost  in  the  race  of  philan 
thropic  discovery,  in  every  department  embraced  by 
this  comprehensive  term?  Our  national  honor  and 
glory  which,  be  it  remembered,  are  to  be  'transmitted 


THE  MAN  47 

as  well  as  enjoyed/  are  involved.  In  building  up  the 
fabric  of  our  commercial  prosperity,  let  us  not  filch 
the  corner-stone.  Let  it  not  be  said  of  us,  in  future 
ages,  that  we  ingloriously  availed  ourselves  of  a  stock 
of  scientific  knowledge,  to  which  we  had  not  con 
tributed  our  quota — that  we  shunned  as  a  people  to 
put  our  shoulder  to  the  wheel — that  we  reaped  where 
we  had  never  sown.  It  is  not  to  be  controverted  that 
such  has  been  hitherto  the  case.  We  have  followed 
in  the  rear  of  discovery,  when  a  sense  of  our  moral 
and  political  responsibility  should  have  impelled  us  in 
its  van." 

But  his  strictures  on  America  and  Americans  were 
equally  bold  and  outspoken.  When  James  Fenimore 
Cooper  was  being  attacked  with  a  malignity  and  scur 
rility  without  parallel  in  our  history  merely  because  he 
had  made  some  tactless  but  essentially  sound  com 
ments  on  American  democracy,  Poe,  almost  alone 
among  American  critics,  hurried  to  the  aid  of  the  elder 
novelist.  "We  are  a  bull-headed  and  prejudiced  peo 
ple,  and  it  were  well  if  we  had  a  few  more  of  the 
stamp  of  Mr.  Cooper  who  would  feel  themselves  at 
liberty  to  tell  us  so  to  our  teeth."  The  American 
fondness  for  glitter,  glare,  and  show  found  in  Poe 
its  most  consistent  contemporary  satirist: 

"We  have  no  aristocracy  of  blood,  and  having  there 
fore  as  a  natural,  and  indeed  as  an  inevitable  thing, 
fashioned  for  ourselves  an  aristocracy  of  dollars,  the 
display  of  wealth  has  here  to  take  the  place  and  per 
form  the  office  of  the  heraldic  display  in  monarchical 
countries.  By  a  transition  readily  understood,  and 


48  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

which  might  have  been  as  readily  foreseen,  we  have 
been  brought  to  merge  in  simple  show  our  notions  of 
taste  itself/' 

While  his  Americanism  resented  "the  disgusting 
spectacle  of  our  subserviency  to  British  criticism,"  it 
resented  equally  the  inverted  patriotism  that  commends 
a  bad  book  because  an  American  wrote  it: 

"There  was  a  time,  it  is  true,  when  we  cringed  to 
foreign  opinion — let  us  even  say  when  we  paid  a 
most  servile  deference  to  British  critical  dicta.  That 
an  American  book  could,  by  any  possibility,  be 
worthy  perusal,  was  an  idea  by  no  means  extensively 
prevalent  in  the  land ;  and  if  we  were  induced  to  read 
at  all  the  productions  of  our  native  writers,  it  was 
only  after  repeated  assurances  from  England  that  such 

productions  were  not  altogether  contemptible 

The  excess  of  our  subserviency  was  blamable — but,  as 
we  have  before  said,  this  very  excess  might  have  found 
a  shadow  of  excuse  in  the  strict  justice,  if  properly 
regulated,  of  the  principle  from  which  it  issued.  Not 
so,  however,  with  our  present  follies.  We  are  becom 
ing  boisterous  and  arrogant  in  the  pride  of  a  too 
speedily  assumed  literary  freedom.  We  throw  off, 
with  the  most  presumptuous  and  unmeaning  hauteur, 
all  deference  whatever  to  foreign  opinion — we  forget, 
in  the  puerile  inflation  of  vanity,  that  the  world  is  the 
true  theatre  of  the  biblical  histrio — we  get  up  a  hue 
and  cry  about  the  necessity  of  encouraging  native 
writers  of  merit — we  blindly  fancy  that  we  can  accom 
plish  this  by  indiscriminate  puffing  of  good,  bad,  and 
indifferent,  without  taking  the  trouble  to  consider  that 


THE  MAN"  49 

what  we  choose  to  denominate  encouragement  is  thus, 
by  its  general  application,  rendered  precisely  the  re 
verse.  In  a  word,  so  far  from  being  ashamed  of  the 
many  disgraceful  literary  failures  to  which  our  own 
inordinate  vanities  and  misapplied  patriotism  have 
lately  given  birth,  and  so  far  from  deeply  lamenting  that 
these  daily  puerilities  are  of  home  manufacture,  we 
adhere  pertinaciously  to  our  original  blindly  conceived 
idea,  and  thus  often  find  ourselves  involved  in  the 
gross  paradox  of  liking  a  stupid  book  the  better,  be 
cause,  sure  enough,  its  stupidity  is  American." 

But  subserviency  to  mere  rank,  to  inherited  wealth 
or  social  position,  was  an  outrage  to  Poe's  Ameri 
canism  more  deeply  resented  than  subserviency  to 
foreign  criticism.  Deploring  the  popularity  of  Charles 
O'Malley's  Irish  Dragoon,  Poe  pays  his  respects  to  the 
base  sycophancy  of  the  book  in  words  that  still  flame 
and  warn: 

"There  is  a  disgusting  vulgarism  of  thought  which 
pervades  and  contaminates  this  whole  production,  and 
from  which  a  delicate  or  lofty  mind  will  shrink  as 
from  a  pestilence.  Not  the  least  repulsive  manifesta 
tion  of  this  leprosy  is  to  be  found  in  the  author's  blind 
and  grovelling  worship  of  mere  rank.  Of  the  Prince 
Regent,  that  filthy  compound  of  all  that  is  bestial — 
that  lazarhouse  of  all  moral  corruption — he  scruples 
not  to  speak  in  terms  of  the  grossest  adulation — sneer 
ing  at  Edmund  Burke  in  the  same  villainous  breath  in 
which  he  extols  the  talents,  the  graces,  and  the  virtues 
of  George  the  Fourth !  That  any  man,  to-day,  can  be 
found  so  degraded  in  heart  as  to  style  this  reprobate, 


50  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

'one  who,  in  every  feeling  of  his  nature,  and  in  every 
feature  of  his  deportment  was  every  inch  a  prince' — 
is  matter  for  grave  reflection  and  sorrowful  debate. 
The  American,  at  least,  who  shall  peruse  the  conclud 
ing  pages  of  the  book  now  under  review,  and  not  turn 
in  disgust  from  the  base  sycophancy  which  infects 
them,  is  unworthy  of  his  country  and  his  name." 

Poe's  Americanism  was  not  the  robust,  genial,  con 
fident  Americanism  of  Lowell.  But  it  was  less  con 
ventional  ;  it  was  also  more  searching,  more  interroga 
tive,  more  constructive.  Its  base  was  not  so  broad, 
but  its  summit  was  higher.  Poe  was  essentially  a 
frontiersman,  Lowell  a  dweller  in  the  more  settled 
interior. 

A  quality  inseparable  from  personality  and  almost 
inseparable  from  Americanism  is  humor.  Did  Poe 
^r\  have  a  sense  of  humor?  Did  he  ever  smile  or  make 
others  smile?  There  is  little  evidence  of  it  in  his 
poems  and  better  known  stories.  Hence  we  find 
James  Hannay4  saying  and  others  saying  with  him, 
"Poe  has  no  humor."  But  Poe's  best  work  did  not 
call  for  humor ;  it  excluded  it.  "Humor,"  he  says, 
"with  an  exception  to  be  made  hereafter,  is  directly 
antagonistical  to  that  which  is  the  soul  of  the  Muse 
proper ;  and  the  omni-prevalent  belief,  that  melancholy 
is  inseparable  from  the  higher  manifestations  of  the 
beautiful,  is  not  without  a  firm  basis  in  nature  and  in 
reason.  But  it  so  happens  that  humor  and  that  quality 
which  we  have  termed  the  soul  of  the  Muse  (imagi 
nation)  are  both  essentially  aided  in  their  develop- 

*The  Poetical  Works  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  London,  1863. 


THE  MAN  51 

ment  by  the  same  adventitious  assistance — that  of 
rhythm  and  of  rhyme.  Thus  the  only  bond  between 
humorous  verse  and  poetry,  properly  so  called,  is  that 
they  employ  in  common  a  certain  tool." 

Others  point  as  evidence  to  the  stories  in  which 
Poe  tried  to  be  funny  and  failed, — to  A  Tale  of  Jeru 
salem,  How  to  Write  a  Blackwood  Article,  The  Devil 
in  the  Belfry,  The  Man  That  Was  Used  Up,  Never 
Bet  the  Devil  Your  Head,  The  Spectacles,  The  Lit 
erary  Life  of  Thin  gum  Bob,  Esq.,  and  X-ing  a  Para- 
grab.  That  these  are  flat  and  irredeemable  failures 
if  weighed  in  the  scales  of  laughter  I  for  one  should 
admit  without  hesitation.  If  laughter  is  heard  in 
them  or  caused  by  them  it  is  surely  a  falsetto  cackle. 
It  is  not  the  laughter  of  Shakespeare  or  Lamb  or 
Mark  Twain  or  O.  Henry.  But  these  futile  efforts 
do  not  prove  that  Poe  had  no  sense  of  humor.  They 
prove  only  that,  if  he  did,  he  could  not  put  it  into  lit 
erature.  He  could  not  fuse  it  with  his  other  con 
structive  qualities.  He  could  not  make  it  merchant 
able  as  a  social  commodity. 

But  he  could  make  it  felt  in  his  criticisms  of  foolish 
books.  When  he  was  asked  by  Griswold  to  name  cer 
tain  selections  from  his  writings  that  might  be  consid 
ered  fairly  representative,  he  replied  that  among  his 
"funny"  pieces  the  review  of  Flaccus  would  do  as  well 
as  anything  else.  Flaccus  was  Thomas  Ward,  whom 
Griswold  had  praised  in  his  Poets  and  Poetry  of 
'America  and  characterized  as  "a  gentleman  of  elegant 
leisure."  "The  sum  of  his  [Ward's]  deserts,"  says 
Poe,  "has  been  footed  up  by  a  clique  who  are  in  the 
habit  of  reckoning  units  as  tens  in  all  cases  where 
champagne  and  'elegant  leisure'  are  concerned." 


52  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Then    follows    an    extract    from    Ward's    Worth    of 
Beauty  with  characteristic  comment: 

"Can  we  venture  to  present  our  readers  with  a 
specimen  ? 

Now  roses  blush,  and  violets'  eyes, 
And  seas  reflect  the  glance  of  skies; 
And  now  that  frolic  pencil  streaks 
With  quaintest  tints  the  tulips'  cheeks; 
Now  jewels  bloom  in  secret  worth 
Like  blossoms  of  the  inner  earth ; 
Now  painted  birds  are  pouring  round 
The  beauty  and  the  wealth  of  sound ; 
Now  sea-shells  glance  with  quivering  ray, 
Too  rare  to  seize,  too  fleet  to  stay, 
And  hues  outdazzling  all  the  rest 
Are  dashed  profusely  on  the  west, 
While  rainbows  seem  to  palettes  changed, 
Whereon  the  motley  tints  are  ranged. 
But  soft  the  moon  that  pencil  tipped, 
As  though,  in  liquid  radiance  dipped, 
A  likeness  of  the  sun  it  drew, 
But  flattered  him  with  pearlier  hue; 
Which  haply  spilling  runs  astray, 
And  blots  with  light  the  milky  way; 
While  stars  besprinkle  all  the  air 
Like  spatterings  of  that  pencil  there. 

"All  this  by  the  way  of  exalting  the  subject.  The 
moon  is  made  a  painter  and  the  rainbow  a  palette. 
And  the  moon  has  a  pencil  (that  pencil!)  which  she 
dips,  by  way  of  a  brush,  in  the  liquid  radiance,  (the 
colors  on  a  palette  are  not  liquid,)  and  then  draivs 
(not  paints)  a  likeness  of  the  sun ;  but,  in  the  attempt, 
plasters  him  too  'pearly/  puts  it  on  too  thick;  the 
consequence  of  which  is  that  some  of  the  paint  is  spilt, 
and  'runs  astray'  and  besmears  the  milky  way,  and 
'spatters'  the  rest  of  the  sky  with  stars!  We  can 
only  say  that  a  very  singular  picture  was  spoilt  in  the 
making." 


THE  MAN  53 

This  is  Poe's  method  in  all  of  the  "funny"  reviews. 
He  probably  took  his  cue  from  Macaulay  whom  he 
greatly  admired  though  with  qualifications.  But  Poe 
made  the  method  his  own.  Instead  of  denouncing  ab 
extra,  he  places  a  specimen  before  the  reader,  punc 
tures  it,  and  lets  the  nonsense  and  impropriety  drib 
ble  out. 

Of  Rufus  Dawes,  author  of  Geraldine,  Griswold 
had  written,  "As  a  poet  the  standing  of  Mr.  Dawes  is 
as  yet  unsettled."  Poe  thought  otherwise : 

He  laid  her  gently  down,  of  sense  bereft, 
And  sunk  his  picture  on  her  bosom's  snow, 

And  close  beside  these  lines  in  blood  he  left: 
"Farewell  forever,  Geraldine,  I  go 

Another  woman's  victim — dare  I  tell? 
Tis    Alice! — curse   us,    Geraldine! — farewell!" 

"There  is  no  possibility  of  denying  the  fact :  this  is  a 
droll  piece  of  business.  The  lover  brings  forth  a  min 
iature,  (Mr.  Dawes  has  a  passion  for  miniatures,) 
sinks  it  in  the  bosom  of  the  lady,  cuts  his  finger,  and 
writes  with  the  blood  an  epistle,  (where  is  not  speci 
fied,  but  we  presume  he  indites  it  upon  the  bosom  as 
it  is  'close  beside'  the  picture,)  in  which  epistle  he  an 
nounces  that  he  is  'another  woman's  victim/  giving 
us  to  understand  that  he  himself  is  a  woman  after  all, 
and  concluding  with  the  delicious  bit  of  Billingsgate 

dare  I  tell? 
'Tis  Alice! — curse  us,  Geraldine! — farewell! 

We  suppose,  however,  that  'curse  us'  is  a  misprint; 
for  why  should  Geraldine  curse  both  herself  and  her 
lover? — it  should  have  been  'curse  it!'  no  doubt 
The  whole  passage,  perhaps,  would  have  read  better 

thus—  oh,  my  eye! 

'Tis  Alice!— d n  it,  Geraldine !— good  bye!" 


54  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

In  his  review  of  The  Sacred  Mountains,  by  J.  T. 
Headley,  a  prose  work,  Poe  satirizes  by  calling  at 
tention  to  the  familiar  omniscience  that  Headley  dis 
plays  in  regard  to  events  in  which,  thinks  Poe,  more 
reverence  and  more  reserve  should  have  been  shown. 
Headley's  long  passage  about  the  Crucifixion  begins: 
"How  heaven  regarded  this  disaster,  and  the  Universe 
felt  at  the  sight,  I  cannot  tell."  Upon  which  Poe 
comments  thus : 

"Mr.  Headley  is  a  mathematical  man.  Moreover 
he  is  a  modest  man;  for  he  confesses  (no  doubt  with 
tears  in  his  eyes)  that  really  there  is  one  thing  that  he 
does  not  know.  'How  Heaven  regarded  this  disaster, 
and  the  Universe  felt  at  the  sight,  I  cannot  tell.* 
Only  think  of  that!  /  cannot! — I,  Headley,  really 
cannot  tell  how  the  Universe  'felt'  once  upon  a  time! 
This  is  downright  bashfulness  on  the  part  of  Mr. 
Headley.  He  could  tell  if  he  would  only  try.  Why 
did  he  not  inquire?  Had  he  demanded  of  the  Uni 
verse  how  it  felt,  can  any  one  doubt  that  the  answer 
would  have  been — Tretty  well,  I  thank  you,  my  dear 
Headley ;  how  do  you  feel  yourself  ?'  " 

The  trail  of  Poe's  humor  may  be  interestingly 
traced  in  his  comments  on  poems  modeled  upon  his 
own.  He  has  often  been  accused,  and  justly,  of  see 
ing  plagiarism  where  no  one  else  could  see  it;  but  in 
the  following  excerpt  no  reader  will  question  that  his 
scent  was  true  or  that  the  plagiarist  got  any  less  than 
his  deserts: 

"Here  is  a  passage  from  another  little  ballad  of 
mine,  called  Lenorc,  first  published  in  1830: 


THE  MAN  55 

How  shall  the  ritual,  then,  be  read — the  requiem  how 
be  sung 

By    you — by    yours,    the    evil    eye — by    yours,    the    slan 
derous  tongue 

That    did    to    death    the    innocence    that    died,   and    died 
so  young? 

"And  here  is  a  passage  from  The  Penance  of  Ro 
land,  by  Henry  B.  Hirst,  published  in  'Graham's 
Magazine'  for  January,  1848 : 

Mine  the  tongue  that  wrought  this  evil — mine  the  false 

and  slanderous  tongue 
That  done  to  death  the  Lady  Gwineth — Oh,  my  soul  is 

sadly  wrung ! 
"Demon !  devil/'  groaned  the  warrior,  "devil  of  the  evil 

eye!" 

I  do  not  object  [concludes  Poe]  to  his  stealing  my 
verses ;  but  I  do  object  to  his  stealing  them  in  bad 
grammar.  My  quarrel  with  him  is  not,  in  short,  that 
he  did  this  thing,  but  that  he  has  went  and  done  did  it," 

Scores  of  passages  like  these,  together  with  his  in 
stant  recognition  and  loyal  defense  of  the  first  efforts 
of  a  young  English  writer  known  then  only  as  "Boz," 
are  evidence  that  Poe  was  very  far  from  being  the 
stark,  solemn,  unsmiling  figure  that  so  many  picture 
him.  He  could  even  laugh  at  himself.  When  he  had 
won  the  hundred-dollar  prize  in  1833  and  Mr.  Latrobe, 
one  of  the  committee  of  award,  asked  the  unknown 
young  writer  what  else  he  had  for  publication,  he  re 
plied  that  he  was  engaged  on  a  voyage  to  the  moon. 
"And  at  once,"  says  Mr.  Latrobe,  "he  began  to  de 
scribe  the  journey  with  so  much  animation  that  for  all 
I  now  remember,  I  may  have  fancied  myself  the  com 
panion  of  his  aeri-al  journey.  When  he  had  finished 
his  description,  he  apologized  for  his  excitability,  wkio\\ 


56  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

he  laughed  at  himself."  Indeed  Poe's  smile — it  is  not 
likely  that  he  ever  laughed  boisterously — was  a  notice 
able  and  memorable  characteristic  of  his  manner  and 
expression.  "I  meet  Mr.  Poe  very  often  at  the  recep 
tions,"  wrote  a  friend  to  Mrs.  Whitman,  when  Poe 
was  living  in  New  York.  "He  is  the  observed  of  all 
observers.  His  stories  are  thought  wonderful,  and  to 
hear  him  repeat  The  Raven,  which  he  does  very  qui 
etly,  is  an  event  in  one's  life.  People  seem  to  think 
there  is  something  uncanny  about  him,  and  the  strang 
est  stories  are  told,  and,  what  is  more,  believed,  about 
his  mesmeric  experiences,5  at  the  mention  of  which  he 
always  smiles.  His  smile  is  captivating." 

Captivating,  too,  was  the  genial,  affectionate,  play 
ful  manner  of  Poe  in  the  privacy  of  his  own  home. 
After  1842  there  was,  it  is  true,  the  deepening  and  sad 
dening  solicitude  for  Virginia's  health ;  but  there  was 
also  a  love,  a  sympathy,  an  unselfishness  that  wrought 
expansively  upon  all  who  dwelt  within.  Mrs.  Frances 
Sargent  Osgood,  the  writer,  knew  Poe  in  the  little 
home  at  85  Amity  Street,  New  York,  and  has  left  a 
sketch  that  should  lay  forever  the  specter  of  brooding 
and  habitual  melancholy  that  still  parades  itself  as 
Edgar  Allan  Poe.  On  her  deathbed,  a  few  months 
after  Poe's  death,  Mrs.  Osgood  wrote: 

"It  was  in  his  own  simple  yet  poetical  home  tHat  to 
me  the  character  of  Edgar  Poe  appeared  in  its  most 


BPoe  refers  to  these  "experiences"  in  his  Marginalia: 
"The  Swedenborgians  inform  me  that  they  have  discovered 
all  that  I  said  in  a  magazine  article,  entitled  'Mesmeric  Reve 
lation,'  to  be  absolutely  true,  although  at  first  they  were  very 
strongly  inclined  to  doubt  my  veracity — a  thing  which,  in  that 
particular  instance,  I  never  dreamed  of  not  doubting  myself. 
The  story  is  a  pure  fiction  from  beginning  to  end." 


THE  MAN  57 

beautiful  light.  Playful,  affectionate,  witty,  alter 
nately  docile  and  wayward  as  a  petted  child,  for  his 
young,  gentle,  and  idolized  wife,  and  for  all  who  came, 
he  had,  even  in  the  midst  of  his  most  harassing  lit 
erary  duties,  a  kind  word,  a  pleasant  smile,  a  graceful 
and  courteous  attention.  At  his  desk  beneath  the  ro 
mantic  picture  of  his  loved  and  lost  Lenore,  he  would 
sit,  hour  after  hour,  patient,  assiduous,  and  uncom 
plaining,  tracing,  in  an  exquisitely  clear  chirography 
and  with  almost  superhuman  swiftness,  the  lightning 
thoughts — the  'rare  and  radiant  fancies' — as  they 
flashed  through  his  wonderful  and  ever-wakeful  brain. 
I  recollect,  one  morning,  toward  the  close  of  his  resi 
dence  in  this  city,  when  he  seemed  unusually  gay  and 
lighthearted.  Virginia,  his  sweet  wife,  had  written 
me  a  pressing  invitation  to  come  to  them;  and  I,  who 
never  could  resist  her  affectionate  summons,  and  who 
enjoyed  his  society  far  more  in  his  own  home  than 
elsewhere,  hastened  to  Amity  Street.  I  found  him 
just  completing  his  series  of  papers  entitled  The  Lit 
erati  of  New  York.  'See/  said  he,  displaying  in 
laughing  triumph  several  little  rolls  of  narrow  paper 
(he  always  wrote  thus  for  the  press),  'I  am  going  to 
show  you  by  the  difference  of  length  in  these  the  dif 
ferent  degrees  of  estimation  in  which  I  hold  all  you 
literary  people.  In  each  of  these  one  of  you  is  rolled 
up  and  fully  discussed.  Come,  Virginia,  help  me!' 
And  one  by  one  they  unfolded  them.  At  last  they 
came  to  one  which  seemed  interminable.  Virginia 
laughingly  ran  to  one  corner  of  the  room  with  one  end, 
and  her  husband  to  the  opposite  with  the  other.  'And 
whose  lengthened  sweetness  long  drawn  out  is  that?' 
said  I.  'Hear  her!'  he  cried.  'Just  as  if  her  little 
vain  heart  didn't  tell  her  it's  herself!' " 


58  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

But  no  appraisal  of  Poe's  personality  or  of  his  re- 
latedness  to  his  age  would  be  at  all  complete  without 
some  mention  of  his  attitude  to  religion.  Here  again 
the  poems  and  stories  leave  us  in  the  dark ;  but  there 
is  abundant  evidence  from  other  sources  that  from 
childhood,  when  he  went  regularly  to  church  with 
Mrs.  Allan,6  to  that  last  hour  when  he  asked  Mrs. 
Moran  if  she  thought  there  was  any  hope  for  him 
hereafter,  God  and  the  Bible  were  fundamental  in  his 
thinking.  It  is  equally  evident  that,  though  living  in 
a  sceptical  age,  an  age  in  which  science  seemed  to  be 
weakening  the  foundations  of  long  cherished  beliefs, 
and  being  himself  enamored  of  scientific  hypothesis 
and  speculative  forecast,  Poe  remained  untouched  by 
current  forms  of  unbelief.  It  is  hard  to  understand 
what  Mr.  Woodberry  means  when  he  records  the  fact 
that  Mrs.  Moran  read  to  the  dying  poet  the  fourteenth 
chapter  of  St.  John's  Gospel  and  adds :  "It  is  the  only 
mention  of  religion  in  his  entire  life."7  If  the  mere 
reading  of  the  Bible  to  Poe,  not  by  him,  be  construed 
as  a  "mention  of  religion"  in  his  life,  what  shall  be 
said  of  his  own  familiarity  with  the  Bible,  of  his  keen 
interest  in  biblical  research,  of  his  oft-expressed  belief 
in  the  truth  of  the  Bible,  or  of  his  final  and  impas 
sioned  defense,  in  Eureka,  of  the  sovereignty  of  the 
God  of  the  Bible? 

Poe's  intimate  knowledge  of  the  Bible  might  be 
traced  in  the  many  allusions  that  he  makes  to  Bible 
history  and  Bible  imagery,  but  more  than  mere  knowl 
edge  is  seen  in  the  conscious  and  vivid  imitation  of 

°See  The  Complete  Poems  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  by  T.  H. 
Whitty,  1917,  p.  XXIV. 

iThe  Life  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe  (1909),  vol.  II,  p.  345. 


THE  MAN  59 

Bible  style  that  he  achieves  in  many  of  his  greatest 
prose  passages.  No  one  could  have  written  Shadow,  a 
Parable  or  Silence,  a  Fable  unless  he  had  so  com 
muned  with  the  Old  Testament  prophets  as  to  catch 
both  the  form  and  the  spirit  of  their  utterance.  In 
dignity  and  elevation  of  thought,  in  faultlessness  of 
keeping,  in  utter  simplicity  of  style  and  structure, 
Poe's  workmanship  in  these  two  selections  alone  would 
place  him  not  only  among  the  masters  of  English  prose 
but  among  the  still  smaller  number  of  those  whose 
mastery  seems  not  so  much  a  homage  to  ancient  mod 
els  as  an  illumination  from  the  same  central  sun. 

Poe's  interest  in  the  discoveries  that  were  begin 
ning  to  throw  new  light  upon  many  perplexing  prob 
lems  in  the  Bible  was  not  the  interest  of  the  anti 
quarian.  There  was  little  of  the  antiquarian  in  his 
nature.  It  was  the  interest  of  one  who  feels  an  in 
stinctive  fellowship  with  all  forms  of  progressive 
thought.  "I  read  all  the  time,"  says  Edison,8  "on  as 
tronomy,  chemistry,  biology,  physics,  music,  meta 
physics,  mechanics,  and  other  branches — political 
economy,  electricity,  and,  in  fact,  all  things  that  are 
making  for  progress  in  the  world."  Poe  might  have 
said  the  same.  It  was  the  forward  movement,  the  wid 
ening  horizon,  the  latent  possibilities  of  a  subject  that 
interested  Poe,  rather  than  the  elemental  nature  of  the 
subject  itself.  Landscape  gardening,  mesmerism, 
cryptography,  metaphysical  speculation,  the  nebular 
hypothesis,  the  new  science  or  pseudo-science  of  aero 
nautics,  the  explorations  then  making  in  the  Pacific 
Ocean  and  the  South  Seas,  Maury's  additions  to  ma- 


8Life  of  Edison,  by  Dyer  and  Martin,  vol.  II,  p.  764. 


60  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

rine  lore,  the  latent  results  of  the  gold-excitement  in 
California,  these  appealed  to  Poe  not  so  much  in  them 
selves  as  through  the  enfolded  sense  of  something 
greater  yet  to  be.  They  were  open  doors  rather  than 
reservoirs.  They  were  frontier  subjects  and  out  of 
each  of  them  he  wrought  literature. 

If  he  did  not  make  literature  out  of  the  results  of 
Bible  discovery  in  Oriental  lands,  he  at  least  left  on 
record  his  familiarity  with  the  subject  and  his  prompt 
recognition  of  the  part  that  such  discoveries  were  des 
tined  to  play  in  the  interpretation  of  the  Old  and  the 
New  Testament.  Though  he  did  not  live  to  greet  any 
of  the  discoveries  of  Sir  Henry  Rawlinson,  "the  fa 
ther  of  Assyriology,"  Poe's  review  of  Incidents  of 
Travel  in  Egypt,  Arabia,  Petrcca,  and  the  Holy  Land, 
by  John  Lloyd  Stephens,  the  New  Jersey  lawyer, 
shows  the  spirit  in  which  he  would  have  welcomed  the 
work  of  the  great  English  Orientalist : 

"Viewed  only  as  one  of  a  class  of  writings  whose  di 
rect  tendency  is  to  throw  light  upon  the  Book  of 
Books,  it  has  strong  claim  upon  the  attention  of  all 
who  read.  While  the  vast  importance  of  critical  and 
philological  research  in  dissipating  the  obscurities  and 
determining  the  exact  sense  of  the  Scriptures  cannot 
be  too  readily  conceded,  it  may  be  doubted  whether  the 
collateral  illustration  derivable  from  records  of  travel 
be  not  deserving  at  least  equal  consideration.  Cer 
tainly  the  evidence  thus  afforded,  exerting  an  enkin 
dling  influence  upon  the  popular  imagination,  and  so 
taking  palpable  hold  upon  the  popular  understanding, 
will  not  fail  to  become  in  time  a  most  powerful  because 
easily  available  instrument  in  the  downfall  of  unbelief. 


THE  MAN  61 

Infidelity  itself  has  often  afforded  unwilling  and  un 
witting  testimony  to  the  truth.  It  is  surprising  to  find 
with  what  unintentional  precision  both  Gibbon  and 
Volney  (among  others)  have  used,  for  the  purpose  of 
description,  in  their  accounts  of  nations  and  countries, 
the  identical  phraseology  employed  by  the  inspired 
writers  when  foretelling  the  most  improbable  event. 
In  this  manner  scepticism  has  been  made  the  root  of 
belief,  and  the  providence  of  the  Deity  has  been  no  less 
remarkable  in  the  extent  and  nature  of  the  means  for 
bringing  to  light  the  evidence  of  his  accomplished 
word,  than  in  working  the  accomplishment  itself." 

Later  on  in  this  review  Poe  avows  his  belief  in  the 
literal  meaning  and  literal  fulfilment  of  Bible  predic 
tions.  The  italics  are  of  course  Poe's : 

"We  look  upon  the  literalness  of  the  understanding 
of  the  Bible  predictions  as  an  essential  feature  in 
prophecy — conceiving  minuteness  of  detail  to  have 
been  but  a  portion  of  the  providential  plan  of  the* Deity 
for  bringing  more  visibly  to  light,  in  after-ages,  the 
evidence  of  the  fulfilment  of  his  word.  No  general 
meaning  attached  to  a  prediction,  no  general  fulfil 
ment  of  such  prediction,  could  carry,  to  the  reason  of 
mankind,  inferences  so  unquestionable,  as  its  particu 
lar  and  minutely  incidental  accomplishment.  General 
statements,  except  in  rare  instances,  are  susceptible  of 
misinterpretation  or  misapplication:  details  admit  no 
shadow  of  ambiguity.  That,  in  many  striking  cases, 
the  words  of  the  prophets  have  been  brought  to  pass  in 
every  particular  of  a  series  of  minutiae,  whose  very 
meaning  was  unintelligible  before  the  period  of  fulfil- 


62  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

ment,  is  a  truth  that  few  are  so  utterly  stubborn  as  to 
deny.  We  mean  to  say  that,  in  all  instances,  the  most 
strictly  literal  interpretation  will  apply." 

He  inserts  also  in  the  same  review  his  proffered 
emendation  of  Isaiah  XXXIV,  10,  quoting  the  original 
Hebrew  in  Hebrew  letters.  Poe  was  very  proud  of 
this  achievement  and  repeats  his  newly  acquired  Ori 
ental  lore  several  times  in  later  years,  though  one  must 
sympathize  with  him  in  his  repetitions  because  the 
typographical  outfit  was  not  again  equal  to  the  repro 
duction  of  the  awesome  and  erudite  Hebrew  originals. 
Of  course  he  has  been  called  a  charlatan  and  worse  for 
intimating  a  knowledge  of  Hebrew  which  he  did  not 
possess.  But  surely  his  pride  in  the  matter  is  pardon 
able.  It  was  a  very  small  hoax.  Doctor  Charles  An- 
thon,  of  New  York,  had  given  him  in  a  letter  (June  I, 
1837)  all  the  information  that  was  needed,  and  Poe 
used  it,  making  much  of  the  Hebrew  characters  that 
Doctor  Anthon  had  furnished.  But  Doctor  Anthon's 
letter  was  in  answer  to  one  from  Poe,  asking  whether 
the  emendation  was  borne  out  by  the  Hebrew  text. 
Poe  nowhere  claims  familiarity  with  Hebrew  or  even 
originality  in  his  proffered  reading  of  the  text. 

Poe's  belief  in  the  Bible,  his  aversion  to  scepticism, 
and  his  assurance  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul  find 
frequent  assertion  in  his  less  known  works.  He  com 
mends  the  inaugural  address  of  the  President  of 
Hampden-Sidney  College  because  it  shows  "a  vein  of 
that  truest  of  all  philosophy,  the  philosophy  of  the 
Christian."  He  believed  that  the  lines, 

Trifles,  like  straws,  upon  the  surface  flow, 

He  who  would  search  for  pearls  must  dive  below, 


THE  MAN  63 

embodied  a  false  philosophy :  "Witness  the  principles 
of  our  divine  faith — that  moral  mechanism  by  which 
the  simplicity  of  a  child  may  overbalance  the  wisdom 
of  a  man."  In  reviewing  Zanoni  he  says:  "All  that 
is  truly  noble  in  Bulwer's  imaginary  doctrines  of  the 
Rosicrucians  is  stolen  from  the  pure  precepts  of  our 
holy  religion."  Knowledge  of  nature,  says  Poe,  adds 
to  our  knowledge  of  God,  and  Macaulay's  assertion 
that  theology  is  not  a  progressive  science  is  declared 
to  be  false  and  misleading : 

"Were  the  indications  we  derive  from  science,  of  the 
nature  and  designs  of  Deity,  and  thence,  by  inference, 
of  man's  destiny, — were  these  indications  proof  direct, 
it  is  then  very  true  that  no  advance  in  science  could 
strengthen  them ;  for,  as  the  essayist  justly  observes, 
'nothing  can  be  added  to  the  force  of  the  argument 
which  the  mind  finds  in  every  beast,  bird  and  flower ;' 
but,  since  these  indications  are  rigidly  analogical, 
every  step  in  human  knowledge,  every  astronomical 
discovery,  in  especial,  throws  additional  light  upon 
the  august  subject,  by  extending  the  range  of  analogy. 
That  we  know  no  more,  to-day,  of  the  nature  of  Deity, 
of  its  purposes,  and  thus  of  man  himself,  than  we  did 
even  a  dozen  years  ago,  is  a  proposition  disgracefully 
absurd.  'If  Natural  Philosophy/  says  a  greater  than 
Macaulay,  'should  continue  to  be  improved  in  its  va 
rious  branches,  the  bounds  of  moral  philosophy  would 
be  enlarged  also/  These  words  of  the  prophetic  New 
ton  are  felt  to  be  true,  and  will  be  fulfilled." 

It  was  the  scepticism  of  Lord  Bolingbroke  which, 
according  to  Poe,  rendered  nearly  half  of  the  vis 
count's  work  comparatively  worthless : 


64  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

"The  philosophical  essays,  occupying  two  of  the 
volumes  on  our  table,  are  comparatively  valueless,  and 
inferior,  both  in  style  and  matter,  to  the  political 
tracts.  They  are  deeply  imbued  with  the  sceptical 
opinions  of  the  author,  and  we  should  have  willingly 
seen  them  omitted  in  this  edition,  if  it  were  possible  to 
get  a  complete  one,  with  nearly  one  half  of  the  author's 
works  left  out.  Little,  therefore,  as  we  value  the  phil 
osophical  works  of  Bolingbroke,  we  commend  the  pub 
lishers  for  not  expunging  them  as  too  many  others 
have  done." 

"Twenty  years  ago/'  says  Poe,  writing  in  1844, 
"credulity  was  the  characteristic  trait  of  the  mob,  in 
credulity  the  distinctive  feature  of  the  philosophic ; 
nozv  the  case  is  conversed.  The  wise  are  wisely  averse 
from  disbelief.  To  be  sceptical  is  no  longer  evidence 
either  of  information  or  of  wit." 

"No  man  doubts  the  immortality  of  the  soul,"  de 
clares  Poe,  "yet  of  all  truths  this  truth  of  immortality 
is  the  most  difficult  to  prove  by  any  mere  series  of 
syllogisms."  And  later:  "However  well  a  man  may 
reason  on  the  great  topics  of  God  and  immortality,  he 
will  be  forced  to  admit  tacitly  in  the  end,  that  God 
and  immortality  are  things  to  be  felt  rather  than  dem 
onstrated."  There  was  a  time,  however,  when  Poe 
believed  that  man's  immortality  could  be  proved : 

"Indeed,  to  our  own  mind,  the  only  irrefutable  argu 
ment  in  support  of  the  soul's  immortality — or,  rather, 
the  only  conclusive  proof  of  man's  alternate  dissolution 
and  rejuvenescence  ad  infinitum — is  to  be  found  in  an 
alogies  deduced  from  the  modern  established  theory  of 


THE  MAN  65 

the  nebular  cosmogony.  This  cosmogony  demonstrates 
that  all  existing  bodies  in  the  universe  are  formed  of  a 
nebular  matter,  a  rare  ethereal  medium,  pervading 
space;  shows  the  mode  and  laws  of  formation,  and 
proves  that  all  things  are  in  a  perpetual  state  of  prog 
ress;  that  nothing  in  nature  is  perfected" 

Not  a  proof  but  an  indication  of  immortality,  "a 
forethought  of  the  loveliness  to  come,"  "a  prescient 
ecstasy  of  the  beauty  beyond  the  grave,"  Poe  found  in 
poetry : 

"He  who  shall  merely  sing  with  whatever  rapture, 
in  however  harmonious  strains,  or  with  however  vivid 
a  truth  of  imitation,  of  the  sights  and  sounds  which 
greet  him  in  common  with  all  mankind — he,  we  say, 
has  yet  failed  to  prove  his  divine  title.  There  is  still  a 
longing  unsatisfied,  which  he  has  been  impotent  to 
fulfill.  There  is  still  a  thirst  unquenchable,  which  to 
allay  he  has  shown  us  no  crystal  springs.  This  burn 
ing  thirst  belongs  to  the  immortal  essence  of  man's  na 
ture.  It  is  equally  a  consequence  and  an  indication  of 
his  perennial  life.  It  is  the  desire  of  the  moth  for  the 
star.  It  is  not  the  mere  appreciation  of  the  beauty  be 
fore  us.  It  is  a  wild  effort  to  reach  the  beauty  above. 
It  is  a  forethought  of  the  loveliness  to  come.  It  is  a 
passion  to  be  satisfied  by  no  sublunary  sights,  or 
sounds,  or  sentiments,  and  the  soul  thus  athirst  strives 
to  allay  its  fever  in  futile  efforts  at  creation.  Inspired 
with  a  prescient  ecstasy  of  the  beauty  beyond  the 
grave,  it  struggles  by  multiform  novelty  of  combina 
tion  among  the  things  and  thoughts  of  Time,  to  antici 
pate  some  portion  of  that  loveliness  whose  very  ele- 


66  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

ments,  perhaps,  appertain  solely  to  Eternity.  And  the 
result  of  such  effort,  on  the  part  of  souls  fittingly  con 
stituted,  is  alone  what  mankind  have  agreed  to  denom 
inate  Poetry." 

But  Eureka,  published  in  1848,  contains  more  of 
Foe's  matured  personality,  more  of  his  spiritual  auto 
biography,  than  any  other  product  of  his  pen.  For 
seven  years  at  least  the  main  conception  of  this  prose- 
poem  absorbed  Poe  as  no  other  constructive  thought 
had  ever  absorbed  him  before.  He  seemed  consciously 
in  the  grip  not  of  a  marginal  truth  but  of  a  central  and 
star-ypointing  truth.  "What  I  here  profound"  he 
writes  in  his  brief  preface,  "is  true : — therefore  it  can 
not  die : — or  if  by  any  means  it  be  now  trodden  down 
so  that  it  die,  it  will  'rise  again  to  the  Life  Everlast 
ing.'  "  Virginia's  death  with  its  long  but  foreseen  ap 
proach  had  thrown  him  starkly  back  upon  the  problem 
of  life  here  and  its  expansion  or  extinction  hereafter. 
The  companionship  that  he  needed  in  these  tense  hours 
of  composition  was  now  furnished  by  Mrs.  Clemm. 
"When  he  was  composing  Eureka,"  she  wrote,  "we 
used  to  walk  up  and  down  the  garden,  his  arm  around 
me,  mine  around  him,  until  I  was  so  tired  I  could  not 
walk.  He  would  stop  every  few  minutes  and  explain 
his  ideas  to  me,  and  ask  if  I  understood  him." 

Eureka  is  more  than  a  demonstration  that  Poe's  in 
tellect  and  imagination  were  functioning  at  their  maxi 
mum  during  those  lonesome  latter  years ;  it  reveals 
that,  above  all  the  doubt  and  darkness  and  decay  that 
seem  to  glimmer  through  his  poems  and  stories,  there 
shone  at  last  the  clear  light  of  an  abiding  conviction 
that 


THE  MAN  67 

God's  in  his  heaven — 
All's   right  with   the   world. 

Two  passages  must  suffice.       The  echo  of  the  first 
seems  heard  in  a  line  of  Tennyson's  In  Memoriam, 

One  God,  one  law,  one  element. 
Poe  writes : 

"That  Nature  and  the  God  of  Nature  are  distinct, 
no  thinking  being  can  long  doubt.  By  the  former  we 
imply  merely  the  laws  of  the  latter.  But  with  the  very 
idea  of  God,  omnipotent,  omniscient,  we  entertain,  also, 
the  idea  of  the  infallibility  of  his  laws.  With  Him 
there  being  neither  Past  nor  Future — with  Him  all  be 
ing  Nozv — do  we  not  insult  him  in  supposing  his  laws 
so  contrived  as  not  to  provide  for  every  possible  con 
tingency? — or,  rather,  what  idea  can  we  have  of  any 
possible  contingency,  except  that  it  is  at  once  a  result 
and  a  manifestation  of  his  laws?  He  who,  divesting 
himself  of  prejudice,  shall  have  the  rare  courage  to 
think  absolutely  for  himself,  cannot  fail  to  arrive,  in 
the  end,  at  the  condensation  of  laws  into  Law — cannot 
fail  of  reaching  the  conclusion  that  each  law  of  Nature 
is  dependent  at  all  points  upon  all  other  lazvs,  and  that 
all  are  but  consequences  of  one  primary  exercise  of  the 
Divine  Volition.  Such  is  the  principle  of  the  Cos 
mogony  which,  with  all  necessary  deference,  I  here 
venture  to  suggest  and  to  maintain." 

Just  as  Tennyson  asked  that  Crossing  the  Bar  be 
placed  last  in  all  editions  of  his  poems,  so  Poe  might 
well  have  asked  that  the  close  of  Eureka — his  swan 
song — be  viewed  as  the  terminus  of  all  that  he  had 


68  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

thought  or  dreamed  or  hoped  or  suffered.  If  "Never 
more"  seem  at  times  the  refrain  of  all  of  his  singing, 
"Evermore"  was  the  note  on  which  he  closed ;  if  de 
spair  seem  the  companion  of  his  more  solitary  moods, 
it  was  only  that  faith  and  hope  might  abide  with  him 
at  the  end ;  if  death  seem  to  loom  too  large  and  men 
acing  in  his  visions,  it  was  over  and  beyond  its  vanish 
ing  rim  that  he  saw  rise  the  beckoning  and  unclouded 
life: 

"These  creatures  [animate  and  inanimate]  are  all, 
too,  more  or  less  conscious  Intelligences ;  conscious, 
first,  of  a  proper  identity ;  conscious,  secondly  and  by 
faint  indeterminate  glimpses,  of  an  identity  with  the 
Divine  Being  of  whom  we  speak — of  an  identity  with 
God.  Of  the  two  classes  of  consciousness,  fancy  that 
the  former  will  grow  weaker,  the  latter  stronger,  dur 
ing  the  long  succession  of  ages  which  must  elapse  be 
fore  these  myriads  of  individual  Intelligences  become 
blended — when  the  bright  stars  become  blended — into 
One.  Think  that  the  sense  of  individual  identity  will 
be  gradually  merged  in  the  general  consciousness — 
that  Man,  for  example,  ceasing  imperceptibly  to  feel 
himself  Man,  will  at  length  attain  that  awfully  tri 
umphant  epoch  when  he  shall  recognize  his  existence 
as  that  of  Jehovah.  In  the  meantime  bear  in  mind 
that  all  is  Life — Life — Life  within  Life — the  less  with 
in  the  greater,  and  all  within  the  Spirit  Divine" 

III 

And  this  is  the  man  they  call  detached  from  the  life 
about  him,  unaligned  with  the  problems  of  his  day, 
uninterested  in  the  things  that  interested  all  others,  "an 


THE  MAN  69 

exotic  with  no  roots  in  the  soil  of  his  nativity,"  neither 
a  person  nor  a  personality  but  a  " fantastically  disem 
bodied"  spirit.  If  Hawthorne,  the  man,  were  similarly 
interpreted,  if  he  were  judged  solely  from  his  greatest 
works,  we  should  think  of  him  as  tortured  day  and 
night  by  a  brooding  sense  of  guilt ;  we  should  picture 
him  as  living  under  the  shadow  of  a  curse,  merited  or 
inherited,  that  left  no  peace  to  his  stricken  conscience. 
It  would  be  a  false  conception,  however,  because  we 
know  from  other  sources  that  Hawthorne  was  not  ab 
normal  in  the  pathological  sense.  But  in  the  case  of 
Poe  there  have  been  no  other  sources.  The  stories  and 
poems  have  been  requisitioned  as  autobiography,  as 
the  only  autobiography.  They  are  the  autobiography 
of  the  artist,  an  artist  who  has  again  and  again  record 
ed  his  conviction  that  art  is  concerned  primarily  with 
beauty,  and  that  beauty,  to  be  appealing,  must  be  gar 
mented  in  strangeness. 

But  Poe's  personality  has  also  been  interpreted  in 
terms  not  of  his  art  but  of  a  habit  that  clung  to  him 
to  the  last.  It  is  needless  to  go  into  the  old  sifted  and 
re-sifted  question  of  the  exact  amount  of  alcohol  neces 
sary  to  render  Poe  irresponsible.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  he  drank  to  excess  and  more  frequently  than  his 
defenders  have  admitted.  There  is  no  doubt  also  that 
he  fought  the  habit,  fostered  by  inheritance  and  en 
vironment,  with  every  power  of  will  and  every  prompt 
ing  of  duty  that  he  could  muster.  The  evidence  is 
plain  that  the  temptation  to  drink  was  strongest  dur 
ing  those  quick  descents  from  confident  hope  and 
exaltation  to  pitiless  and  intolerable  dejection.  George 
Eliot  writes  of  "the  still  melancholy  that  I  love."  Poe 
did  not  love  it,  nor  was  it  habitual  with  him.  His  tern- 


70  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

perament  was  mercurial,  and  to  break  the  fall  from 
elation  to  hopelessness  he  drank.  Indulgence  was  fol 
lowed  not  by  angry  retort  to  those  that  sought  to  coun 
sel  him  but  by  profound  humiliation  and  by  promise  of 
reform.  To  assert  that  Poe  found  poetic  inspiration 
in  drink  is  to  fly  in  the  face  of  all  the  known  facts. 
Drink  did  not  help  him ;  it  hurt  him,  and  he  fought  it 
as  a  foe  of  art,  of  thought,  of  personality,  and  of  self- 
respect.  The  very  nature  of  his  work, — with  its  metic 
ulous  care  in  details,  its  orderliness,  its  niceties  of 
analysis,  its  interplay  of  reason  and  logic,  its  symmetry 
of  construction,  makes  impossible  the  conjecture  that 
he  could  have  wrought  it  or  any  part  of  it  while  ex 
cited  by  drink.  Poe  drank  but  he  was  not  a  drunkard ; 
he  was  dissipated  but  not  dissolute. 

No  one  has  stated  the  case  better  than  his  friend, 
F.  W.  Thomas: 

"If  he  took  but  one  glass  of  weak  wine  or  beer  or 
cider  the  Rubicon  of  the  cup  was  passed  with  him,  and 
it  almost  always  ended  in  excess  and  sickness.  But  he 
fought  against  the  propensity  as  hard  as  ever  Cole 
ridge  fought  against  it,  and  I  am  inclined  to  believe, 
after  his  sad  experience  and  suffering,  if  he  could  have 
gotten  office  with  a  fixed  salary,  beyond  the  need  of 
literary  labour,  that  he  would  have  redeemed  himself 
— at  least  at  this  time.  The  accounts  of  his  derelic 
tions  in  this  respect  when  I  knew  him  were  very  much 
exaggerated.  I  have  seen  men  who  drank  bottles  of 
wine  to  Poe's  wine  glasses  who  yet  escaped  all  imputa 
tion  of  intemperance.  His  was  one  of  those  tempera 
ments  whose  only  safety  is  in  total  abstinence.  He 
suffered  terribly  after  any  indiscretion.  And  after  all 
what  Byron  said  of  Sheridan  was  true  of  Poe — 


THE  MAN  Jri 

Ah  little  do  they  know 
That  what  to  them  seemed  vice  might  be  but  woe." 

The  poems  that  Poe  wrote  after  the  death  of  Vir 
ginia,  the  addresses  that  he  delivered  to  applauding 
audiences,  and  the  unexceptional  testimony  of  the  men 
and  women  who  knew  him  most  intimately  during  the 
last  three  months  in  Richmond  show  that  there  was 
no  bankruptcy  of  intellect,  no  collapse  of  character,  no 
disintegration  of  personality.  "With  all  his  reckless 
ness,"  says  Stedman,  warning  the  reader  against  mak 
ing  Poe  and  the  unheroic  hero  of  William  Wilson  one 
and  the  same,  "he  was  neither  vicious  nor  criminal, 
and  he  never  succeeded  or  wished  to  succeed  in  put 
ting  down  his  conscience.  That  stayed  by  him  to  the 
bitter  end,  and  perhaps  the  end  was  speedier  for  its 
companionship." 

Summing  up,  may  we  not  say  that  Poe's  work  will 
enter  upon  a  still  wider  stage  of  influence  when  it  is  , 
regarded  not  as  allurement  to  doubt  and  despair  but/ 
as  an  outcry  against  them?     Is  is  not  unjust  to  call*' 
him  the  poet  laureate  of  death  and  decay  in  the  sense 
in  which  we  call  Shelley  the  poet  laureate  of  love, 
Wordsworth  of  nature,  Tennyson  of  trust,  or  Brown 
ing  of  resolute  faith  ?    Poe  did  not  love  death ;  he  di 
not  celebrate  the  charms  of  doubt  or  of  darkness  or 
separation.     He  abhorred  them.     The  desolate  lover 
in  The  Raven  does  not  acquiesce  in  "Nevermore."     It 
flouts  and  belies  every  instinct  and  intuition  of  his 
heart.     And  in  every  poem  and  story  of  Poe's  over 
which  blackness  seems  to  brood,  there  is  the  unmistak 
able  note  of  spiritual  protest ;  there  is  the  evidence  of 
a  nature  so  attuned  to  love  and  light,  to  beauty  and 
harmony,  that  denial  of  them  or  separation  from  them 


'ii- 
lid 

,:: 


72  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

is  a  veritable  death-in-life.  Poe  fathomed  darkness 
but  climbed  to  the  light ;  he  became  the  world's  spokes 
man  for  those  dwelling  within  the  shadow  but  his  feet 
were  already  upon  the  upward  slope.  Out  of  it  all 
he  emerged  victor,  not  victim. 

When  I  remember  that  Poe  resented  the  charge  of 
pantheism  as  keenly  as  that  of  atheism,  when  I  re 
call  that  he  ended  his  career  as  thinker  and  prophet 
with  the  chant,  "All  is  Life — Life — Life  within  Life — 
the  less  within  the  greater,  and  all  within  the  Spirit 
Divine,"  the  sunlight  seems  to  fall  upon  "the  misty  mid 
region  of  Weir,"  even  "the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of 
Weir;"  and  Edgar  Allan  Poe  seems  no  longer  our 
great  autumnal  genius,  heralding  an  early  winter,  but 
the  genius  of  winter  itself,  a  late  winter,  with  spring 
already  at  its  heart. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  CRITIC 


OUR  ultimate  knowledge  of  Poe,  however,  must 
rest  neither  upon  his  fame  nor  upon  his  personality. 
These  are  only  subsidiary  to  the  deeper  knowledge 
that  comes  from  a  first-hand  acquaintance  with  his 
works.  In  mere  bulk  Poe's  literary  output  was  not 
large  but  it  was  singularly  varied.  No  other  writer 
of  English  has  attained  an  equal  eminence  in  literary 
genres  as  different  as  criticism,  poetry,  and  the  short 
story.  To  these  must  also  be  added  a  fourth  type  for 
which  Stedman1  has  suggested  the  name  "Pastels,"  or 
"Impressions,"  or  "Petits  Poemes  en  Prose."  Criti 
cism,  however,  should  come  first,  for  it  was  through 
criticism  that  Poe  first  made  a  national  reputation ; 
and  it  is  in  his  criticism  that  we  find  the  clearest  expo 
sition  of  the  literary  principles  to  which,  from  first  to 
last,  he  was  consistently  loyal  in  the  production  of  his 
own  creative  work. 

But  Poe's  criticisms  are  more  than  introductions  to 
his  own  works.  They  have  also  a  value  as  historical 
material  in  the  evolution  of  American  literature. 
They  serve  as  contemporary  witnesses  to  the  suprem 
acy  of  Cooper,  Bryant  and  Irving,  and  as  heralds  of 
the  greater  group  represented  by  Longfellow,  Lowell, 

~*-The  Works  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  by  Edmund  Clarence 
Stedman  and  George  Edward  Woodberry,  New  York,  1914, 
vol.  I,  p.  94. 

73 


74  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Whittier,  Hawthorne,  Emerson,  and  Holmes.  Poe 
lived  in  a  transition  age,  when  New  York  was  yielding 
its  literary  hegemony  to  New  England,  and  when  the 
South  and  the  West  were  sounding  the  first  notes  in 
a  great  regional  chorus  which,  after  1870,  was  to  mark 
the  advent  at  last  of  a  regionally  representative  Ameri 
can  literature.  These  movements  were  noted  and  re 
corded  by  Poe  as  by  no  other  contemporary  critic. 

But  Poe's  critiques  have  an  independent  value 
apart  from  the  time  and  place  that  called  them  forth. 
They  are  the  comments  of  one  whose  genius  was  pre 
eminently  structural.  The  architecture  of  prose  and 
verse,  especially  of  the  short  story  and  the  short  poem, 
appealed  to  Poe  far  more  than  they  appealed  to  any 
other  English  or  American  critic.  He  did  not  neglect 
content,  but  he  was  distinctively  the  builder.  His 
most  characteristic  reviews  are  not  mere  appraisals; 
they  are  answers  to  the  question,  How  might  this  have 
been  better  done?  This  kind  of  criticism  might  easily 
have  degenerated  into  the  analysis  of  the  purely  ex 
ternal  and  comparatively  irrelevant.  In  fact,  Gris- 
wold  said  of  Poe:  "As  a  critic,  he  was  more  remark 
able  as  a  dissector  of  sentences  than  as  a  commenter  on 
ideas."  But  Poe  was  primarily  neither  a  dissector  of 
sentences  nor  a  commenter  on  ideas.  He  dissects  sen 
tences  and  he  comments  on  ideas  but  only  as  these 
make  or  mar  the  structural  unity,  the  wholeness  of 
effect,  of  the  piece  that  he  is  criticizing.  "Totality  of 
effect"  became  Poe's  touchstone  at  the  beginning  of 
his  critical  career;  and  words,  sounds,  rhythms,  sen 
tences,  paragraphs,  stanzas,  plot,  and  background  are 
held  to  a  strict  stewardship  not  on  their  own  account 
but  as  joint  agents  in  carrying  out  the  predetermined 
design. 


THE  CRITIC  75 

To  compare  Poe  as  a  critic  with  Coleridge  or  Mat 
thew  Arnold  or  Sainte-Beuve  or  Taine  or  Lowell  is 
to  compare  him  with  men  who  wore,  it  is  true,  the 
same  livery,  but  who  served  under  other  banners. 
His  criticism  was  different  from  theirs  because  his 
purpose  was  different.  When  I  read  them,  I  feel 
more  than  I  feel  in  Poe  the  impact  of  philosophical 
suggestions,  of  wide  historical  relationships,  of  litera 
ture  interpreted  as  life,  and  life  seen  anew  through 
literature.  Whether  you  call  their  method  judicial  in 
the  Aristotelian  sense,  or  purely  impressionistic,  or 
learnedly  historical,  the  man  whose  work  they  are 
criticizing  seems  in  certain  vital  ways  to  live  again. 
I  seem  to  know  him  as  a  man  and  as  a  thinker,  but  not 
as  a  craftsman.  How  he  succeeded  in  bodying  forth 
his  conceptions,  how  the  man  became  for  the  time 
being  the  literary  artist,  how  he  made  an  ally  of  that 
tested  body  of  truth  known  as  technique,  how  he  dif 
fers  from  me  who  now  think  as  he  thought  but  am  as 
powerless  as  before  to  write  as  he  wrote, — this  re 
mains  in  its  original  obscurity.  But  it  is  this  niche 
in  criticism  that  Poe  has  come  nearer  filling  than  any 
one  else.  It  is  this  quality  in  his  critical  work  that 
makes  him  a  living  force  wherever  men  are  "stung  by 
the  splendor  of  a  sudden  thought"  but  impotent  to 
impart  it.  It  is  this  radiation  from  his  criticisms  that 
makes  them  permanently  serviceable  not  merely  to  the 
creative  artist  in  letters  but  to  all  those  who  wish  to 
write  or  to  speak  more  convergently  and  thus  more 
effectively. 

II 

The  following  extracts  are  chosen  to  exemplify  the 
more  important  aspects  of  Poe's  criticism  but  espec- 


;6  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

ially  the  last  mentioned.     Only  one  selection,   Poe's 
analysis  of  The  Raven,  is  given  complete. 

THE  FACULTY  OF  IDENTIFICATION 

[A  new  edition  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  reviewed  in 
The  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  January,  1836.  The 
review  has  an  autobiographical  significance.  It  shows 
also  that  Poe  could  admire  whole-heartedly  a  work 
that  has  neither  plot  nor  stylistic  beauty.  The  Narra 
tive  of  A.  Gordon  Pym  (1838)  is  Poe's  Robinson 
Crusoe.] 

How  fondly  do  we  recur,  in  memory,  to  those  en 
chanted  days  of  our  boyhood  when  we  first  learned  to 
grow  serious  over  "Robinson  Crusoe"  ! — when  we  first 
found  the  spirit  of  wild  adventure  enkindling  within 
us ;  as  by  the  dim  fire  light,  we  labored  out,  line  by 
line,  the  marvellous  import  of  those  pages,  and  hung 
breathless  and  trembling  with  eagerness  over  their  ab 
sorbing — over  their  enchaining  interest!  "Nothing 
farther,"  as  Vapid  says,  "can  be  done  in  that  line." 
Wo,  henceforward,  to  the  Defoe  who  shall  prate  to  us 
of  "undiscovered  bournes."  There  is  positively  not 
a  square  inch  of  new  ground  for  any  future  Selkirk. 
Neither  in  the  Indian,  in  the  Pacific,  nor  in  the  At 
lantic,  has  he  a  shadow  of  hope.  The  Southern 
Ocean  has  been  incontinently  ransacked,  and  in  the 
North — Scoresby,  Franklin,  Parry,  Ross  &  Co.  have 
been  little  better  than  so  many  salt  water  Paul  Prys. 

While  Defoe  would  have  been  fairly  entitled  to  im 
mortality  had  he  never  written  "Robinson  Crusoe," 
yet  his  many  other  very  excellent  writings  have  nearlv 


THE  CRITIC  77 

faded  from  our  attention,  in  the  superior  lustre  of  the 
Adventures  of  the  Mariner  of  York.  What  better 
possible  species  of  reputation  could  the  author  have 
desired  for  that  book  than  the  species  which  it  has  so 
long  enjoyed?  It  has  become  a  household  thing  in 
nearly  every  family  in  Christendom.  Yet  never  was 
admiration  of  any  work — universal  admiration — more 
indiscriminately  or  more  inappropriately  bestowed. 
Not  one  person  in  ten — nay,  not  one  person  in  five 
hundred,  has,  during  the  perusal  of  "Robinson  Cru 
soe,"  the  most  remote  conception  that  any  particle  of 
genius,  or  even  of  common  talent,  has  been  employed 
in  its  creation !  Men  do  not  look  upon  it  in  the  light 
of  a  literary  performance.  Defoe  has  none  of  their 
thoughts — Robinson  all.  The  powers  which  have 
wrought  the  wonder  have  been  thrown  into  obscurity 
by  the  very  stupendousness  of  the  wonder  they  have 
wrought !  We  read,  and  become  perfect  abstractions 
in  the  intensity  of  our  interest — we  close  the  book,  and 
are  quite  satisfied  that  we  could  have  written  as  well 
ourselves !  All  this  is  effected  by  the  potent  magic  of 
verisimilitude.  Indeed  the  author  of  "Crusoe"  must 
have  possessed,  above  all  other  faculties,  what  has  been 
termed  the  faculty  of  identification — that  dominion 
exercised  by  volition  over  imagination  which  enables 
the  mind  to  lose  its  own,  in  a,  fictitious,  individuality. 
This  includes,  in  a  very  great  degree,  the  power  of  ab 
straction  ;  and  with  these  keys  we  may  partially  unlock 
the  mystery  of  that  spell  which  has  so  long  invested 
the  volume  before  us. 

But  a  complete  analysis  of  our  interest  in  it  can 
not  be  thus  afforded.  Defoe  is  largely  indebted  to  his 
subject.  The  idea  of  man  in  a  state  of  perfect  isola- 


;8  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

tion,  although  often  entertained,  was  never  before  so 
comprehensively  carried  out.  Indeed  the  frequency 
of  its  occurrence  to  the  thoughts  of  mankind  argued 
the  extent  of  its  influence  on  their  sympathies,  while 
the  fact  of  no  attempt  having  been  made  to  give  an 
embodied  form  to  the  conception,  went  to  prove  the 
difficulty  of  the  undertaking.  But  the  true  narrative 
of  Selkirk  in  1711,  with  the  powerful  impression  it 
then  made  upon  the  public  mind,  sufficed  to  inspire 
Defoe  with  both  the  necessary  courage  for  his  work, 
and  entire  confidence  in  its  success.  How  wonderful 
has  been  the  result! 

THE  NOVEL  AS  HISTORY  AND  PHILOSOPHY 

[Bulwer's  Rienzi,  the  Last  of  the  Tribunes,  reviewed 
in  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  February,  1836. 
The  last  sentence  of  this  extract  is  Poe's  clearest  state 
ment  of  his  adherence  to  a  fundamental  principle  of 
democracy.] 

But  as  was  said  before,  we  should  err  radically  if 
we  regard  "Rienzi"  altogether  in  the  light  of  Ro 
mance.  Undoubtedly  as  such — as  a  fiction,  and  com 
ing  under  the  title  of  a  novel,  it  is  a  glorious,  a  won 
derful  conception,  and  not  the  less  wonderfully  and 
gloriously  carried  out.  What  else  could  we  say  of  a 
book  over  which  the  mind  so  delightedly  lingers  in  pe 
rusal  ?  In  its  delineations  of  passion  and  character — in 
the  fine  blending  and  contrasting  of  its  incidents — 
in  the  rich  and  brilliant  tints  of  its  feudal  paintings — in 
a  pervading  air  of  chivalry,  and  grace,  and  senti 
ment — in  all  that  can  throw  a  charm  over  the  pages  of 
Romance,  the  last  novel  of  Bulwer  is  equal,  if  not  su- 


THE  CRITIC  79 

perior,  to  any  of  his  former  productions.  Still  we 
would  look  at  the  work  in  a  different  point  of  view. 
It  is  History.  We  hesitate  not  to  say  that  it  is  His 
tory  in  its  truest — in  its  only  true,  proper,  and  philo 
sophical  garb.  Sismondi's  works — were  not.  There  is 
no  greater  error  than  dignifying  with  the  name  of  His 
tory  a  tissue  of  dates  and  details,  though  the  dates  be 
ordinarily  correct,  and  the  details  indisputably  true. 
Not  even  with  the  aid  of  acute  comment  will  such  a 
tissue  satisfy  our  individual  notions  of  History.  To 
the  effect  let  us  look — to  the  impression  rather  than  to 
the  seal.  And  how  very  seldom  is  any  definite  im 
pression  left  upon  the  mind  of  the  historical  reader ! 
How  few  bear  away — even  from  the  pages  of  Gibbon 
— Rome  and  the  Romans.  Vastly  different  was  the 
genius  of  Niebuhr — than  whom  no  man  possessed  a 
more  discriminative  understanding  of  the  uses  and  the 
purposes  of  the  pen  of  the  historiographer.  But  we 
digress.  Bearing  in  mind  that  "to  contemplate" — 
luTOpsTv2 — should  and  must  be  allowed  a  more  noble 
and  a  more  expansive  acceptation  than  has  been 
usually  given  it,  wre  shall  often  discover  in  Fiction  the 
essential  spirit  and  vitality  of  Historic  Truth — while 
Truth  itself,  in  many  a  dull  and  lumbering  Archive, 
shall  be  found  guilty  of  all  the  inefficiency  of  Fiction. 
"Rienzi,"  then,  is  History.  But  there  are  other 
aspects  in  which  it  may  be  regarded  with  advantage. 
Let  us  survey  it  as  a  profound  and  lucid  exposition  of 


2History,  from  UJTOQEIV,  to  contemplate,  seems,  among 
the  Greeks,  to  have  embraced  not  only  the  knowledge  of  past 
events,  but  also  Mythology,  Esopian  and  Milesian  fables, 
Romance,  Tragedy  and  Comedy.  But  our  business  is  with 
things,  not  words.  (Poe's  Note.) 


8o  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

the  morale  of  Government — of  the  Philosophies  of 
Rule  and  Misrule — of  the  absolute  incompatibility  of 
Freedom  and  Ignorance — Tyranny  in  the  few  and 
Virtue  in  the  many.  Let  us  consider  it  as  something 
akin  to  direct  evidence  that  a  people  is  not  a  mob,  nor 
a  mob  a  people,  nor  a  mob's  idol  the  idol  of  a  people — • 
that  in  a  nation's  self  is  the  only  security  for  a  nation 
— and  that  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to  model  upon  the 
character  of  the  governed,  the  machinery,  whether 
simple  or  complex,  of  the  governmental  legislation. 

AN  OMEN  OF  BETTER  DAYS  FOR  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

[Georgia  Scenes,  by  Judge  Augustus  Baldwin  Long- 
street,  reviewed  in  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger, 
March,  1836.  The  book  has  proved  a  sort  of  classic 
of  provincial  literature.  Poe  closes  his  review  of 
about  ten  pages  by  saying:  "Altogether  this  very  hu 
morous  and  very  clever  book  forms  an  era  in  our  read 
ing.  It  has  reached  us  per  mail,  and  without  a  cover. 
We  will  have  it  bound  forthwith,  and  give  it  a  niche 
in  our  library  as  a  sure  omen  of  better  days  for  the 
literature  of  the  South."] 

This  book  has  reached  us  anonymously — not  to  say 
anomalously — yet  it  is  most  heartily  welcome.  The 
author,  whoever  he  is,  is  a  clever  fellow,  imbued  with 
a  spirit  of  the  truest  humor,  and  endowed,  moreover, 
with  an  exquisitely  discriminative  and  penetrating  un 
derstanding  of  character  in  general,  and  of  Southern 
character  in  particular.  And  we  do  not  mean  to  speak 
of  human  character  exclusively.  To  be  sure,  our 
Georgian  is  an  fait  here  too — he  is  learned  in  all  things 
appertaining  to  the  biped  without  feathers.  In  re- 


THE  CRITIC  81 

gard,  especially,  to  that  class  of  southwestern  mam 
malia  who  come  under  the  generic  appellation  of 
"savagerous  wild  cats,"  he  is  a  very  Theophrastus  in 
duodecimo.  But  he  is  not  the  less  at  home  in  other 
matters.  Of  geese  and  ganders  he  is  the  La  Bruyere, 
and  of  good-for-nothing  horses  the  Rochefoucault. 

Seriously — if  this  book  were  printed  in  England  it 
would  make  the  fortune  of  its  author.  We  positively 
mean  what  we  say — and  are  quite  sure  of  being  sus 
tained  in  our  opinion  by  all  proper  judges  who  may  be 
so  fortunate  as  to  obtain  a  copy  of  the  "Georgia 
Scenes,"  and  who  will  be  at  the  trouble  of  sifting  their 
peculiar  merits  from  amid  the  gaucheries  of  a  South 
ern  publication.  Seldom — perhaps  never  in  our  lives 
— have  we  laughed  as  immoderately  over  any  book  as 
over  the  one  now  before  us.  If  these  scenes  have  pro 
duced  such  effect  upon  our  cachinnatory  nerves — upon 
us  who  are  not  "of  the  merry  mood,"  and,  moreover, 
have  not  been  used  to  the  perusal  of  somewhat  similar 
things — we  are  at  no  loss  to  imagine  what  a  hubbub 
they  would  occasion  in  the  uninitiated  regions  of 
Cockaigne.  And  what  would  Christopher  North  say 
to  them? — ah,  what  would  Christopher  North  say? 
that  is  the  question.  Certainly  not  a  word.  But  we 
can  fancy  the  pursing  up  of  his  lips,  and  the  long,  loud, 
and  jovial  resonation  of  his  wicked,  uproarious  ha! 
ha's ! 

From  the  Preface  to  the  Sketches  before  us  we 
learn  that  although  they  are,  generally,  nothing  more 
than  fanciful  combinations  of  real  incidents  and  char 
acters,  still,  in  some  instances,  the  narratives  are  lit 
erally  true.  We  are  told  also  that  the  publication  of 
these  pieces  was  commenced,  rather  more  than  a  year 


82  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

ago,  in  one  of  the  Gazettes  of  the  State,  and  that  they 
were  favorably  received.  "For  the  last  six  months," 
says  the  author,  "I  have  been  importuned  by  persons 
from  all  quarters  of  the  State  to  give  them  to  the  pub 
lic  in  the  present  form."  This  speaks  well  for  the 
Georgian  taste.  But  that  the  publication  will  succeed, 
in  the  bookselling  sense  of  the  word,  is  problematical. 
Thanks  to  the  long-indulged  literary  supineness  of  the 
South,  her  presses  are  not  as  apt  in  putting  forth  a 
saleable  book  as  her  sons  are  in  concocting  a  wise  one. 

COMPARISON  VS.   IDEALITY 

[The  Culprit  Fay  and  Other  Poems,  by  Joseph 
Rodman  Drake,  reviewed  in  The  Southern  Literary 
Messenger,  April,  1836.  The  suggestive  distinction 
here  made  is  not  that  of  Coleridge  between  fancy  and 
imagination.  See  page  no.  Note  that  Poe's  construc 
tive  sense  leads  him  to  rewrite  a  passage  from  The 
Culprit  Fay,  a  striking  illustration  of  the  propinquity 
of  theory  and  practice,  of  thought  and  expression,  in 
his  own  art.] 

It  is  only  lately  that  we  have  read  the  "Culprit 
Fay."  This  is  a  poem  of  six  hundred  and  forty  irreg 
ular  lines,  generally  iambic,  and  divided  into  thirty- 
six  stanzas,  of  unequal  length.  The  scene  of  the  nar 
rative,  as  we  ascertain  from  the  single  line, 

The  moon  looks  down  on  old  Cronest, 

is  principally  in  the  vicinity  of  West  Point  on  the 

Hudson 

It  is  more  than  probable  that  from  ten  readers  of 
the  "Culprit  Fay,"  nine  would  immediately  pronounce 


THE  CRITIC  83 

it  a  poem  betokening  the  most  extraordinary  powers 
of  imagination,  and  of  these  nine,  perhaps  five  or  six, 
poets  themselves,  and  fully  impressed  with  the  truth 
of  what  we  have  already  assumed,  that  Ideality  is  in 
deed  the  soul  of  the  Poetic  Sentiment,  would  feel  em 
barrassed  between  a  half-consciousness  that  they 
ought  to  admire  the  production,  and  a  wonder  that 
they  do  not.  This  embarrassment  would  then  arise 
from  an  indistinct  conception  of  the  results  in  which 
Ideality  is  rendered  manifest.  Of  these  results  some 
few  are  seen  in  the  "Culprit  Fay,"  but  the  greater  part 
of  it  is  utterly  destitute  of  any  evidence  of  imagination 
whatever.  The  general  character  of  the  poem  will, 
we  think,  be  sufficiently  understood  by  any  one  who 
may  have  taken  the  trouble  to  read  our  foregoing  com 
pendium  of  the  narrative.  It  will  be  there  seen  that 
what  is  so  frequently  termed  the  imaginative  power  of 
this  story,  lies  especially — we  should  have  rather  said 
is  thought  to  lie — in  the  passages  we  have  quoted,  or 
in  others  of  a  precisely  similar  nature.  These  pas 
sages  embody,  principally,  mere  specifications  of 
qualities,  of  habiliments,  of  punishments,  of  occupa 
tions,  of  circumstances,  &c.,  which  the  poet  has  be 
lieved  in  unison  with  the  size,  firstly,  and  sec6ndly 
with  the  nature  of  his  Fairies.  To  all  which  may  be 
added  specifications  of  other  animal  existences  (such 
as  the  toad,  the  beetle,  the  lance-fly,  the  fire-fly  and 
the  like)  supposed  also  to  be  in  accordance.  An  ex 
ample  will  best  illustrate  our  meaning  upon  this  point 
— we  take  it  from  page  20. 

He  put  his  acorn  helmet  on ; 
It  was  plumed  of  the  silk  of  the  thistle  down : 
The  corslet  plate  that  guarded  his  breast 
Was  once  the  wild  bee's  golden  vest; 


84  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

His  cloak  of  a  thousand  mingled  dyes, 

Was  formed  of  the  wings  of  butterflies; 

His  shield  was  the  shell  of  a  lady-bug  queen, 

Studs  of  gold  on  a  ground  of  green;3 

And  the  quivering  lance  which  he  brandished  bright 

Was  the  sting  of  a  wasp  he  had  slain  in  fight. 

We  shall  now  be  understood.  Were  any  of  the  ad 
mirers  of  the  "Culprit  Fay"  asked  their  opinion  of 
these  lines,  they  would  most  probably  speak  in  high 
terms  of  the  imagination  they  display.  Yet  let  the 
most  stolid  and  the  most  confessedly  unpoetical  of 
these  admirers  only  try  the  experiment,  and  he  will 
find,  possibly  to  his  extreme  surprise,  that  he  himself 
will  have  no  difficulty  whatever  in  substituting  for  the 
equipments  of  the  Fairy,  as  assigned  by  the  poet,  other 
equipments  equally  comfortable,  no  doubt,  and  equally 
in  unison  with  the  preconceived  size,  character,  and 
other  qualities  of  the  equipped.  Why,  we  could  ac 
coutre  him  as  well  ourselves — let  us  see. 

His  blue-bell  helmet,  we  have  heard 

Was  plumed  with  the  down  of  the  humming-bird, 

The  corslet  on  his  bosom  bold 

Was  once  the  locust's  coat  of  gold, 

His  cloak,  of  a  thousand  mingled  hues, 

Was  the  velvet  violet,  wet  with  dews, 

His  target  was  the  crescent  shell 

Of  the  small  sea  Sidrophel, 

And  a  glittering  beam  from  a  maiden's  eye 

Was  the  lance  which  he  proudly  wav'd  on  high. 

The  truth  is,  that  the  only  requisite  for  writing 
verses  of  this  nature,  ad  libitum,  is  a  tolerable  ac 
quaintance  with  the  qualities  of  the  objects  to  be  de 
tailed,  and  a  very  moderate  endowment  of  the  faculty 
of  Comparison — which  is  the  chief  constituent  of 

8Chestnut  color,  or  more  slack, 
Gold  upon  a  ground  of  black. 

Ben  Jonson.     (Poe's  Note.) 


THE  CRITIC  85 

Fancy  or  the  powers  of  combination.  A  thousand 
such  lines  may  be  composed  without  exercising  in  the 
least  degree  the  Poetic  Sentiment,  which  is  Ideality, 
Imagination,  or  the  creative  ability.  And,  as  we  have 
before  said,  the  greater  portion  of  the  "Culprit  Fay" 
is  occupied  with  these,  or  similar  things,  and  upon 
such,  depends  very  nearly,  if  not  altogether,  its  reputa 
tion.  We  select  another  example  from  page  25. 

But  oh !  how  fair  the  shape  thatp  lay 

Beneath  a  rainbow  bending  bright, 
She  seem'd  to  the  entranced  Fay 

The  loveliest  of  the  forms  of  light; 
Her  mantle  was  the  purple  rolled 

At  twilight  in  the  west  afar; 
Twas  tied  with  threads  of  dawning  gold. 

And  button'd  with  a  sparkling  star. 
Her  face  was  like  the  lily  roon 

That  veils  the  vestal  planet's  hue ; 
Her  eyes,  two  beamlets  from  the  moon 

Set  floating  in  the  welkin  blue. 
Her  hair  is  like  the  sunny  beam, 
And  the  diamond  gems  which  round  it  gleam 
Are  the  pure  drops  of  dewy  even, 
That  ne'er  have  left  their  native  heaven. 

Here  again  the  faculty  of  Comparison  is  alone  ex 
ercised,  and  no  mind  possessing  the  faculty  in  any  or 
dinary  degree  would  find  a  difficulty  in  substituting 
for  the  materials  employed  by  the  poet  other  materials 
equally  as  good.  But  viewed  as  mere  efforts  of  the 
Fancy  and  without  reference  to  Ideality,  the  lines  just 
quoted  are  much  worse  than  those  which  were  taken 
from  page  20.  A  congruity  was  observed  in  the  ac 
coutrements  of  the  Ouphe,  and  we  had  no  trouble  in 
forming  a  distinct  conception  of  his  appearance  when 
so  accoutred.  But  the  most  vivid  powers  of  Compari 
son  can  attach  no  definite  idea  to  even  "the  loveliest 
form  of  light,"  when  habited  in  a  mantle  of  "rolled 


86  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE' 

purple  tied  with  threads  of  dawn  and  buttoned  with  a 
star,"  and  sitting  at  the  same  time  under  a  rainbow 
with  "beamlet"  eyes  and  a  visage  of  "lily  roon." 

But  if  these  things  evince  no  Ideality  in  their  au 
thor,  do  they  not  excite  it  in  others? — if  so,  we  must 
conclude,  that  without  being  himself  imbued  with  the 
Poetic  Sentiment,  he  has  still  succeeded  in  writing  a 
fine  poem — a  supposition  as  we  have  before  endeav 
ored  to  show,  not  altogether  paradoxical.  Most  as 
suredly  we  think  not.  In  the  case  of  a  great  majority 
of  readers  the  only  sentiment  aroused  by  compositions 
of  this  order  is  a  species  of  vague  wonder  at  the 
writer's  ingenuity,  and  it  is  this  indeterminate  sense  of 
wonder  which  passes  but  too  frequently  current  for 
the  proper  influence  of  the  Poetic  power.  For  our 
own  part  we  plead  guilty  to  a  predominant  sense  of 
the  ludicrous  while  occupied  in  the  perusal  of  the  poem 
before  us — a  sense  whose  promptings  we  sincerely  and 
honestly  endeavored  to  quell,  perhaps  not  altogether 
successfully,  while  penning  our  compend  of  the  narra 
tive.  That  a  feeling  of  this  nature  is  utterly  at  war 
with  the  Poetic  Sentiment,  will  not  be  disputed  by 
those  who  comprehend  the  character  of  the  sentiment 
itself.  This  character  is  finely  shadowed  out  in  that 
popular  although  vague  idea  so  prevalent  throughout 
all  time,  that  a  species  of  melancholy  is  inseparably 
connected  with  the  higher  manifestations  of  the  beau 
tiful.  But  with  the  numerous  and  seriously-adduced 
incongruities  of  the  "Culprit  Fay/'  we  find  it  generally 
impossible  to  connect  other  ideas  than  those  of  the 
ridiculous.  We  are  bidden,  in  the  first  place,  and  in 
a  tone  of  sentiment  and  language  adapted  to  the  lofti 
est  breathings  of  the  Muse,  to  imagine  a  race  of  Fair- 


THE  CRITIC  87 

ies  in  the  vicinity  of  West  Point.  We  are  told,  with 
a  grave  air,  of  their  camp,  of  their  king,  and  especially 
of  their  sentry,  who  is  a  woodtick.  We  are  informed 
that  an  Ouphe  of  about  an  inch  in  height  has  commit 
ted  a  deadly  sin  in  falling  in  love  with  a  mortal  maid 
en,  who  may,  very  possibly,  be  six  feet  in  her  stock 
ings.  The  consequence  to  the  Ouphe  is — what? 
Why,  that  he  has  "dyed  his  wings,"  "broken  his  elfin 
chain,"  and  "quenched  his  flame-wood  lamp."  And 
he  is  therefore  sentenced  to  what?  To  catch  a  spark 
from  the  tail  of  a  falling  star,  and  a  drop  of  water1 
from  the  belly  of  a  sturgeon.  What  are  his  equip 
ments  for  the  first  adventure?  An  acorn-helmet,  a 
thistle-down  plume,  a  butterfly  cloak,  a  ladybug 
shield,  cockle-seed  spurs,  and  a  fire-fly  horse.  How 
does  he  ride  to  the  second?  On  the  back  of  a  bull 
frog.  What  are  his  opponents  in  the  one  ?  "Drizzly- 
mists,"  "sulphur  and  smoke,"  "shadowy  hands  and 
flame-shot  tongues."  What  in  the  other?  "Mailed 
shrimps,"  "prickly  prongs,"  "blood-red  leeches,"  "jel 
lied  quarls,"  "stony  star  fishes,"  "lancing  squabs"  and 
"soldier  crabs."  Is  that  all?  No — Although  only  an 
inch  high  he  is  in  imminent  danger  of  seduction  from 
a  "sylphid  queen,"  dressed  in  a  mantle  of  "rolled  pur 
ple,"  "tied  with  threads  of  dawning  gold,"  "buttoned 
with  a  sparkling  star,"  and  sitting  under  a  rainbow 
with  "beamlet  eyes"  and  a  countenance  of  "lily  roon." 
In  our  account  of  all  this  matter  we  have  had  refer 
ence  to  the  book — and  to  the  book  alone.  It  will  be 
difficult  to  prove  us  guilty  in  any  degree  of  distortion 
or  exaggeration.  Yet  such  are  the  puerilities  we  daily 
find  ourselves  called  upon  to  admire,  as  among  the 
loftiest  efforts  of  the  human  mind,  and  which  not  to 


88  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

assign  a  rank  with  the  proud  trophies  of  the  matured 
and  vigorous  genius  of  England,  is  to  prove  ourselves 
at  once  a  fool,  a  maligner,  and  no  patriot.4 

As  an  instance  of  what  may  be  termed  the  sub 
limely  ridiculous  we  quote  the  following  lines  from 
page  17. 

With  sweeping  tail  and  quivering  fin, 
Through  the  wave  the  sturgeon  flew, 

And  like  the  heaven-shot  javelin, 
He  sprung  above  the  waters  blue. 

Instant  as  the  star-fall  light, 

He  plunged  into  the  deep  again, 
But  left  an  arch  of  silver  bright 

The  rainbow  of  the  moony  main. 

It  "was  a  strange  and  lovely  sight 
To  see  the  puny  goblin  there; 

He  seemed  an  angel  form  of  light 
With  azure  wing  and  sunny  hair, 
Throned  on  a  cloud  of  purple  fair 

Circled  with  blue  and  edged  with  white 
And  sitting  at  the  fall  of  even 
Beneath  the  bow  of  summer  heaven. 

The  verses  here  italicized,  if  considered  without 
their  context,  have  a  certain  air  of  dignity,  elegance, 
and  chastity  of  thought.  If  however  we  apply  the 
context,  we  are  immediately  overwhelmed  with  the 
grotesque.  It  is  impossible  to  read  without  laughing, 
such  expressions  as  "It  was  a  strange  and  lovely 
sight" — "He  seemed  an  angel  form  of  light" — 

4A  review  of  Drake's  poems,  emanating  from  one  of  our 
proudest  Universities,  does  not  scruple  to  make  use  of  the 
following  language  in  relation  to  the  Culprit  Fay.  "It  is,  to 
say  the  least,  an  elegant  production,  the  purest  specimen  of 
Ideality  we  have  ever  met  with,  sustaining  in  each  incident  a 
most  bewitching  interest.  Its  very  title  is  enough,3'  &c.  &c. 
We  quote  these  expressions  as  a  fair  specimen  of  the  general 
unphilosophical  and  adulatory  tenor  of  our  criticism.  (Poe's 
Note.) 


THE  CRITIC  89 

"And  sitting  at  the  fall  of  even,  beneath  the  bow  of 
summer  heaven"  applied  to  a  Fairy — a  goblin — an 
Ouphe — half  an  inch  high,  dressed  in  an  acorn  helmet 
and  butterfly-cloak,  and  sitting  on  the  water  in  a 
muscle-shell,  with  a  "brown-backed  sturgeon"  turning 
somersets  over  his  head. 

In  a  world  where  evil  is  a  mere  consequence  of 
good,  and  good  a  mere  consequence  of  evil — in  short 
where  all  of  which  we  have  any  conception  is  good  or 
bad  only  by  comparison — we  have  never  yet  been  fully 
able  to  appreciate  the  validity  of  that  decision  which 
would  debar  the  critic  from  enforcing  upon  his  read 
ers  the  merits  or  demerits  of  a  work  by  placing  it  in 
juxtaposition  with  another.  It  seems  to  us  that  an 
adage  based  in  the  purest  ignorance  has  had  more  to 
do  with  this  popular  feeling  than  any  just  reason 
founded  upon  common  sense.  Thinking  thus,  we 
shall  have  no  scruple  in  illustrating  our  opinion  in  re 
gard  to  what  is  not  Ideality  or  the  Poetic  Power,  by 
an  example  of  what  is.5 

We  have  already  given  the  description  of  the  Syl- 
phid  Queen  in  the  "Culprit  Fay."  In  the  "Queen 
Mab"  of  Shelley  a  Fairy  is  thus  introduced — 

Those  who  had  looked  upon  the  sight 

Passing  all  human  glory, 
Saw  not  the  yellow  moon, 
Saw  not  the  mortal  scene, 

5As  examples  of  entire  poems  of  the  purest  ideality,  we 
would  cite  the  Prometheus  Vinctus  of  ^Eschylus,  the  Inferno 
of  Dante,  Cervantes'  Destruction  of  Numantia,  the  Comus  of 
Milton,  Pope's  Rape  of  the  Lock,  Burns'  Tarn  O'  Shanter,  the 
Auncient  Mariner,  the  Christabel,  and  the  Kubla  Khan  of 
Coleridge ;  and  most  especially  the  Sensitive  Plant  of  Shelley, 
and  the  Nightingale  of  Keats.  We  have  seen  American 
poems  evincing  the  faculty  in  the  highest  degree.  (Poe's 
Note.) 


90  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Heard  not  the  night  wind's  rush, 
Heard  not  an  earthly  sound, 
Saw  but  the  fairy  pageant, 
Heard  but  the  heavenly  strains 
That  filled  the  lonely  dwelling — 

and  thus  described — 

The  Fairy's  frame  was  slight;  yon  fibrous  cloud 
That  catches  but  the  faintest  tinge  of  even, 
And  which  the  straining  eye  can  hardly  seize 
When  melting  into  eastern  twilight's  shadow, 
Were  scarce  so  thin,  so  slight ;  but  the  fair  star 
That  gems  the  glittering  coronet  of  morn, 
Sheds  not  a  light  so  mild,  so  powerful, 
As  that  which,  bursting  from  the  Fairy's  form, 
Spread  a  purpureal  halo  round  the  scene, 
Yet  with  an  undulating  motion, 
Swayed  to  her  outline  gracefully. 

In  these  exquisite  lines  the  Faculty  of  mere  Com 
parison  is  but  little  exercised — that  of  Ideality  in  a 
wonderful  degree.  It  is  probable  that  in  a  similar 
case  the  poet  we  are  now  reviewing  would  have 
formed  the  face  of  the  Fairy  of  the  ''fibrous  cloud," 
her  arms  of  the  "pale  tinge  of  even,"  her  eyes  of  the 
"fair  stars,"  and  her  body  of  the  "twilight  shadow." 
Having  so  done,  his  admirers  would  have  congratu 
lated  him  upon  his  imagination,  not  taking  the  trouble 
to  think  that  they  themselves  could  at  any  moment 
imagine  a  Fairy  of  materials  equally  as  good,  and  con 
veying  an  equally  distinct  idea.  Their  mistake  would 
be  precisely  analogous  to  that  of  many  a  schoolboy 
who  admires  the  imagination  displayed  in  "Jack  the 
Giant-Killer,"  and  is  finalty  rejoiced  at  discovering 
his  own  imagination  to  surpass  that  of  the  author, 
since  the  monsters  destroyed  by  Jack  are  only  about 
forty  feet  in  height,  and  he  himself  has  no  trouble  in 
imagining  some  of  one  hundred  and  forty.  It  will  be 


THE  CRITIC  91 

seen  that  the  Fairy  of  Shelley  is  not  a  mere  compound 
of  incongruous  natural  objects,  inartificially  put  to 
gether,  and  unaccompanied  by  any  moral  sentiment — 
but  a  being,  in  the  illustration  of  whose  nature  some 
physical  elements  are  used  collaterally  as  adjuncts, 
while  the  main  conception  springs  immediately  or  thus 
apparently  springs,  from  the  brain  of  the  poet,  envel 
oped  in  the  moral  sentiments  of  grace,  of  color,  of 
motion — of  the  beautiful,  of  the  mystical,  of  the  au 
gust — in  short  of  the  ideal* 

It  is  by  no  means  our  intention  to  deny  that  in  the 
"Culprit  Fay"  are  passages  of  a  different  order  from 
those  to  which  we  have  objected — passages  evincing  a 
degree  of  imagination  not  to  be  discovered  in  the  plot, 
conception,  or  general  execution  of  the  poem.  The 
opening  stanza  will  afford  us  a  tolerable  example. 

'Tis  the  middle  watch  of  a  summer's  night — 

The  earth  is  dark  but  the  heavens  are  bright 

Naught  is  seen  in  the  vault  on  high 

But  the  moon,  and  the  stars,  and  the  cloudless  sky, 

And  the  flood  which  rolls  its  milky  hue 

A  river  of  light  on  the  welkin  blue. 

The  moon  looks  down  on  old  Cronest, 

She  mellows  the  shades  of  his  shaggy  breast, 

And  seems  his  huge  gray  form  to  throw 

In  a  silver  cone  on  the  wave  below ; 

His  sides  are  broken  by  spots  of  shade, 

By  the  walnut  bow  and  the  cedar  made, 

And  through  their  clustering  branches  dark 

Glimmers  and  dies  the  fire-fly's  spark — 

Like  starry  twinkles  that  momently  break 

Through  the  rifts  of  the  gathering  tempest  rack. 


6Among  things,  which  not  only  in  our  opinion,  but  in  the 
opinion  of  far  wiser  and  better  men,  are  to  be  ranked  with 
the  mere  prettinesses  of  the  Muse,  are  the  positive  similes  so 
abundant  in  the  writings  of  antiquity,  and  so  much  insisted 
upon  by  the  critics  of  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne.  (Poe's  Note.) 


92  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

There  is  Ideality  in  these  lines — but  except  in  the 
case  of  the  words  italicized — it  is  Ideality  not  of  a  high 
order.  We  have,  it  is  true,  a  collection  of  natural  ob 
jects,  each  individually  of  great  beauty,  and,  if  actu 
ally  seen  as  in  nature,  capable  of  exciting  in  any  mind, 
through  the  means  of  the  Poetic  Sentiment  more  or 
less  inherent  in  all,  a  certain  sense  of  the  beautiful. 
But  to  view  such  natural  objects  as  they  exist,  and  to 
behold  them  through  the  medium  of  words,  are  differ 
ent  things.  Let  us  pursue  the  idea  that  such  a  col 
lection  as  we  have  here  will  produce,  of  necessity,  the 
Poetic  Sentiment,  and  we  may  as  well  make  up  our 
minds  to  believe  that  a  catalogue  of  such  expressions 
as  moon,  sky,  trees,  rivers,  mountains,  &c.,  shall  be 
capable  of  exciting  it, — it  is  merely  an  extension  of  the 
principle.  But  in  the  line  "the  earth  is  dark,  but  the 
heavens  are  bright"  besides  the  simple  mention  of  the 
"dark  earth"  "and  the  bright  heavens,"  we  have,  di 
rectly,  the  moral  sentiment  of  the  brightness  of  the 
sky  compensating  for  the  darkness  of  the  earth — and 
thus,  indirectly,  of  the  happiness  of  a  future  state  com 
pensating  for  the  miseries  of  the  present.  All  this  is 
effected  by  the  simple  introduction  of  the  word  but  be 
tween  the  "dark  earth"  and  the  "bright  heavens" — this 
introduction,  however,  was  prompted  by  the  Poetic 
Sentiment,  and  by  the  Poetic  Sentiment  alone.  The 
case  is  analogous  in  the  expression  "glimmers  and 
dies,"  where  the  imagination  is  exalted  by  the  moral 
sentiment  of  beauty  heightened  in  dissolution. 

In  one  or  two  shorter  passages  of  the  "Culprit 
Fay"  the  poet  will  recognize  the  purely  ideal,  and  be 
able  at  a  glance  to  distinguish  it  from  that  baser  alloy 
upon  which  we  have  descanted.  We  give  them  with 
out  farther  comment. 


THE  CRITIC  93 

The  winds  are  whist,  and  the  owl  is  still, 

The  bat  in  the  shelvy  rock  is  hid 
And  naught  is  heard  on  the  lonely  hill 
But  the  cricket's  chirp  and  the  answer  shrill 

Of  the  gauze-winged  katydid;  _ 
And  the  plaint  of  the  wailing  whippoorwill 

Who  mourns  unseen,  and  ceaseless  sings 
Ever  a  note  of  wail  and  wo — 

Up  to  the  vaulted  firmament 
His  path  the  fire-fly  courser  bent, 
And  at  every  gallop  on  the  wind 
He  flung  a  glittering  spark  behind. 

He  blessed  the  force  of  the  charmed  line 
And  he  banned  the  water-goblins'  spite.^ 
For  he  saw  around  in  the  sweet  moonshine, 
Their  little  wee  faces  above  the  brine, 
Giggling  and  laughing  with  all  their  might 
At  the  piteous  hap  of  the  Fairy  wight. 

A  PRESENT  TENSE  WRONGLY  USED 

[Notices  of  the  War  of  1812,  by  John  Armstrong, 
reviewed  in  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  June, 
1836.  The  extract  is  a  good  example  of  Poe's  method 
of  criticizing  a  mere  word  but  a  word  that  embodies 
the  spirit  of  an  entire  book.  The  review  is  as  timely 
now  as  when  it  was  written.] 

These  "Notices,"  by  the  former  Secretary  of  War, 
are  a  valuable  addition  to  our  history,  and  to  our  his 
torical  literature — embracing  a  variety  of  details  which 
should  not  have  been  so  long  kept  from  the  cognizance 
of  the  public.  We  are  grieved,  however,  to  see,  even 
in  the  opening  passages  of  the  work,  a  piquancy  and 
freedom  of  expression,  in  regard  to  the  unhappy 
sources  of  animosity  between  America  and  the  parent 
land,  which  can  neither  to-day  nor  hereafter  answer 
any  possible  good  end,  and  may  prove  an  individual 


94  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

grain  in  a  future  mountain  of  mischief.     At  page  12, 
for  example: 

"Still  her  abuse  of  power  did  not  stop  here :  it  was 
not  enough  that  she  thus  outraged  her  rights  on  the 
ocean ;  the  bosoms  of  our  bays,  the  mouths  of  our 
rivers,  and  even  the  wharves  of  our  harbors,  were 
made  the  theatres  of  the  most  flagitious  abuse ;  and  as 
if  determined  to  leave  no  cause  of  provocation  untried, 
the  personal  rights  of  our  seamen  were  invaded:  and 
men,  owing  her  no  allegiance,  nor  having  any  connec 
tion  with  her  policy  or  arms,  were  forcibly  seized, 
dragged  on  board  her  ships  of  war  and  made  to  fight 
her  battles,  under  the  scourge  of  tyrants  and  slaves, 
with  whom  submission,  whether  right  or  wrong, 
forms  the  whole  duty  of  man." 

We  object,  particularly  here  to  the  use  of  the  verb 
forms  in  the  present  tense. 

THE   SPIRIT  OF   RESEARCH    IN   OUR   NAVY 

[Navigation,  by  Matthew  Fontaine  Maury,  reviewed 
in  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  June,  1836.  Poe's 
interest  in  naval  affairs  is  shown  in  many  passages  of 
his  works,  and  his  familiarity  with  nautical  terms  is 
equally  evident  in  the  Narrative  of  A.  Gordon  Pyrn. 
In  his  reviews  of  Lieutenant  Alexander  Slidell's 
books,  he  comments  upon  a  naval  officer  now  almost 
forgotten,  while  in  the  present  review  he  commends 
the  first  publication  of  one  who  in  later  years  was  to 
be  honored  in  all  lands  where  naval  science  is  held  in 
esteem.] 

This  volume,  from  an  officer  of  our  Navy,  and  a 
Virginian,  strongly  commends  itself  to  notice.  The 


THE  CRITIC  95 

works  at  present  used  by  our  navy  and  general  ma 
rine,  though  in  many  respects  not  devoid  of  merit, 
have  always  struck  us  as  faulty  in  two  particulars. 
They  aim  at  comprising  a  great  multiplicity  of  details, 
many  of  which  relate  to  matters  only  remotely  bearing 
upon  the  main  objects  of  the  treatise — and  they  are  de 
ficient  in  that  clearness  of  arrangement,  without 
which,  the  numerous  facts  and  formulae  composing 
the  body  of  such  works  are  little  else  than  a  mass  of 
confusion.  The  extraction  of  the  really  useful  rules 
and  principles  from  the  multifarious  matters  with 
which  they  are  thus  encumbered,  is  a  task  for  which 
seamen  are  little  likely  to  have  either  time  or  inclina 
tion,  and  it  is  therefore  not  surprising  that  our  highly 
intelligent  navy  exhibits  so  many  instances  of  imper 
fect  knowledge  upon  points  which  are  elementary  and 
fundamental  in  the  science  of  navigation. 

We  think  that  Mr.  Maury  has,  to  a  considerable 
degree,  avoided  the  errors  referred  to ;  and  while  his 
work  comprises  a  sufficient  and  even  copious  state 
ment  of  the  rules  and  facts  important  to  be  known  in 
the  direction  of  a  ship,  he  has  succeeded,  by  a  judicious 
arrangement  of  particulars  and  by  clearly  wrought 
numerical  examples,  in  presenting  them  in  a  disem 
barrassed  and  very  intelligible  form.  With  great 
propriety  he  has  rejected  many  statements  and  rules 
which  in  the  progress  of  nautical  science  have  fallen 
into  disuse,  and  in  his  selection  of  methods  of  compu 
tation,  has,  in  general,  kept  in  view  those  modern  im 
provements  in  this  branch  of  practical  mathematics  in 
which  simplicity  and  accuracy  are  most  happily  com 
bined.  Much  attention  to  numerical  correctness  seems 
to  pervade  the  work.  Its  style  is  concise  without 


96  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

being  obscure.  The  diagrams  are  selected  with  taste, 
and  the  engraving  and  typography,  especially  that  of 
the  tables,  are  worthy  of  the  highest  praise. 

Such,  we  think,  are  the  merits  of  the  work  before 
us — merits  which,  it  must  be  admitted,  are  of  the  first 
importance  in  a  book  designed  for  a  practical  manual. 
To  attain  them  required  the  exercise  of  a  discriminat 
ing  judgment,  guided  by  a  thorough  acquaintance 
with  all  the  points  in  natural  science  which  are  of  in 
terest  to  seamen. 

There  are  particulars  in  the  work  which  we  think 
objectionable,  but  they  are  of  minor  importance,  and 
would  probably  be  regarded  as  scarcely  deserving 
criticism. 

The  spirit  of  literary  improvement  has  been  awak 
ened  among  the  officers  of  our  gallant  navy.  We  are 
pleased  to  see  that  science  also  is  gaining  votaries 
from  its  ranks.  Hitherto  how  little  have  they  im 
proved  the  golden  opportunities  of  knowledge  which 
their  distant  voyages  held  forth,  and  how  little  have 
they  enjoyed  the  rich  banquet  which  nature  spreads 
for  them  in  every  clime  they  visit!  But  the  time  is 
coming  when,  imbued  with  a  taste  for  science  and  a 
spirit  of  research,  they  will  become  ardent  explorers  of 
the  regions  in  which  they  sojourn.  Freighted  with 
the  knowledge  which  observation  only  can  impart,  and 
enriched  with  collections  of  objects  precious  to  the 
student  of  nature,  their  return  after  the  perils  of  a  dis 
tant  voyage  will  then  be  doubly  joyful.  The  enthusiast 
in  science  will  anxiously  await  their  coming,  and  add 
his  cordial  welcome  to  the  warm  greetings  of  relatives 
and  friends. 


THE  CRITIC  97 

GOVERNMENT  AND  THE  FORMS  OF  GOVERNMENT 

[England  in  1835,  by  Frederick  von  Raumer,  trans 
lated  from  the  German  by  Sarah  Austin  and  H.  E. 
Lloyd,  reviewed  in  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger, 
July,  1836.  Poe  touches  on  an  old  theme  here  but  the 
years  have  only  accentuated  the  validity  of  his 
warning.] 

This  work  will  form  an  era  in  the  reading  annals  of 
the  more  contemplative  portions  of  Americans — while 
its  peculiar  merits  will  be  overlooked  by  the  multitude. 
The  broad  and  solid  basis  of  its  superstructure — the 
scrupulous  accuracy  of  its  data — the  disdain  of  mere 
logic  in  its  deductions — the  generalizing,  calm,  com 
prehensive — in  a  word,  the  German  character  of  its 
philosophy,  will  insure  it  an  enthusiastic  welcome 
among  all  the  nobler  spirits  of  our  land.  What  though 
its  general  tenor  be  opposed  at  least  apparently  to 
many  of  our  long-cherished  opinions  and  deeply- 
rooted  prejudices?  Shall  we  less  welcome  the  truth, 
or  glory  in  its  advancement  because  of  its  laying  bare 
our  own  individual  errors?  But  the  England  of  Von 
Raumer  will  be  sadly  and  wickedly  misconceived  if  it 
be  really  conceived  as  militating  against  a  Republi 
canism  here,  which  it  opposes  with  absolute  justice,  in 
Great  Britain,  and  Prussia.  It  will  be  sadly  miscon 
ceived  if  it  be  regarded  as  embracing  one  single  sen 
tence  with  which  the  most  bigoted  lover  of  abstract 
democracy  can  have  occasion  to  find  fault.  At  the 
same  time  we  cannot  help  believing  that  it  will,  in 
some  measure,  be  effectual  in  diverting  the  minds  of 
our  countrymen,  and  of  all  who  read  it,  from  that  per- 


98  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

petual  and  unhealthy  excitement  about  the  forms  and 
machinery  of  governmental  action  which  have  within 
the  last  century  so  absorbed  their  attention  as  to  ex 
clude  in  a  strange  degree  all  care  of  the  proper  results 
of  good  government — the  happiness  of  a  people — im 
provement  in  the  condition  of  mankind — practicable 
under  a  thousand  forms — and  without  which  all  forms 
are  valueless  and  shadowy  phantoms.  It  will  serve 
also  as  an  auxiliary  in  convincing  mankind  that  the 
origin  of  the  principal  social  evils  of  any  given  land  is 
not  to  be  found  (except  in  a  much  less  degree  than  we 
usually  suppose)  either  in  republicanism  or  monarchy 
or  any  especial  method  of  government — that  we  must 
look  for  the  source  of  our  greatest  defects  in  a  variety 
of  causes  totally  distinct  from  any  such  action — in  love 
of  gain,  for  example,  whose  direct  tendency  to  social 
evil  was  vividly  shown  in  an  essay  on  American  So 
cial  Elevation  lately  published  in  the  "Messenger." 
In  a  word,  let  this  book  of  Von  Raumer's  be  read  with 
attention,  as  a  study  and  as  a  whole.  If  this  thing  be 
done — which  is  but  too  seldom  done  (here  at  least)  in 
regard  .to  works  of  a  like  character  and  cast — and  we 
will  answer  for  the  result — as  far  as  that  result  de 
pends  upon  the  deliberate  and  unprejudiced  declara 
tion  of  any  well-educated  man. 

WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 

[Fourth  edition  of  Poems,  by  William  Culler* 
Bryant,  reviewed  in  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger, 
January,  1837.  In  a  later  review  Poe  says:  "Mr. 
Longfellow  is  not  as  thorough  a  versifier  within  Mr. 
Bryant's  limits,  but  a  far  better  one  upon  the  whole, 
on  account  of  his  greater  range."] 


THE  CRITIC  99 

The  "Waterfowl"  is  very  beautiful,  but  still  not  en 
titled  to  the  admiration  which  it  has  occasionally 
elicited.  There  is  a  fidelity  and  force  in  the  picture  of 
the  fowl  as  brought  before  the  eye  of  the  mind,  and  a 
fine  sense  of  effect  in  throwing  its  figure  on  the  back 
ground  of  the  "crimson  sky/'  amid  "falling  dew," 
"while  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day." 
But  the  merits  which  possibly  have  had  most  weight  in 
the  public  estimation  of  the  poem,  are  the  melody  and 
strength  of  its  versification,  (which  is  indeed  excel 
lent)  and  more  particularly  its  completeness.  Its 
rounded  and  didactic  termination  has  done  wonders : 

....  on  my  heart, 

Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  has  given 
And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He,  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

There  are,  however,  points  of  more  sterling  merit. 
We  fully  recognize  the  poet  in 

Thou'rt  gone — the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form. 

There  is  a  power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast — 
The  desert,  and  illimitable  air-— 

Lone,  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

"The  Forest  Hymn"  consists  of  about  a  hundred 
and  twenty  blank  Pentameters  of  whose  great  rhyth 
mical  beauty  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  speak  too  highly. 
With  the  exception  of  the  line 

The  solitude.    Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds 


ioo  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

no  fault,  in  this  respect,  can  be  found,  while  excellen 
cies  are  frequent  of  a  rare  order,  and  evincing  the 
greatest  delicacy  of  ear.  We  might,  perhaps,  suggest, 
that  the  two  concluding*  verses,  beautiful  as  they 
stand,  would  be  slightly  improved  by  transferring  to 
the  last  the  metrical  excess  of  the  one  immediately  pre 
ceding.  For  the  appreciation  of  this,  it  is  necessary  to 
quote  six  or  seven  lines  in  succession. 

Oh,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine,  nor  let  us  need  the  wrath 
Of  the  mad  unchained  elements,  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.     Be  it  ours  to  meditate 
In  these  calm  shades  thy  milder  majesty, 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  livest 

There  is  an  excess  of  one  syllable  in  the  first  of  the 
lines  italicized.  If  we  discard  this  syllable  here,  and 
adopt  it  in  the  final  line,  the  close  will  acquire; 
strength,  we  think,  in  acquiring  a  fuller  volume. 

Be  it  ours  to  meditate 
In  these  calm  shades  thy  milder  majesty, 
And  to  the  perfect  order  of  thy  works 
Conform,  if  we  can,  the  order  of  our  lives. 

Directness,  boldness,  and  simplicity  of  expression, 
are  main  features  in  the  poem. 

Oh  God !  when  thoti 

Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set  on  fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or  fill 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament 
The  swift  dark  whirlwind  that  uproots  the  woods, 
And  drowns  the  villages. 

Here  an  ordinary  writer  would  have  preferred  the 
word  fright  to  scare,  and  omitted  the  definite  article 
before  woods  and  villages. 


THE  CRITIC  ioi 

"To  the  Evening  Wind"  has  been  justly  admired. 
It  is  the  best  specimen  of  that  completeness  which  we 
have  before  spoken  of  as  a  characteristic  feature  in  the 
poems  of  Mr.  Bryant.  It  has  a  beginning,  middle, 
and  end,  each  depending  upon  the  other,  and  each 
beautiful.  Here  are  three  lines  breathing  all  the  spirit 
of  Shelley. 

Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way,  where  meekly  bows 
The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters  pass, 
And  'tvjixt  the  o'er  shadowing  branches  and  the  grass. 

The  conclusion  is  admirable — 

Go — but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 
Which  is  the  life  of  Nature,  shall  restore, 
With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy  mighty  range, 
Thee  to  thy  birth-place  of  the  deep  once  more; 
Sweet  odors  in  the  sea  air,  szucet  and  strange, 
SJiall  tell  the  home-sick  mariner  of  the  shore, 
And,  listening  to  thy  murmur,  he  shall  deem 
He  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  running  stream. 

"Thanatopsis"  is  somewhat  more  than  half  the 
length  of  "The  Forest  Hymn,"  and  of  a  character  pre 
cisely  similar.  It  is,  however,  the  finer  poem.  Like 
"The  Waterfowl,"  it  owes  much  to  the  point,  force, 
and  general  beauty  of  its  didactic  conclusion.  In  the 
commencement,  the  lines 

To  him  who,  in  the  love  of  nature,  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  &c. 

belong  to  a  class  of  vague  phrases,  which,  since  the 
days  of  Byron,  have  obtained  too  universal  a  currency. 
The  verse 

Go  forth  under  the  open  sky  and  list — 

is  sadly  out  of  place  amid  the  forcible  and  even  Mil- 
tonic  rhythm  of  such  lines  as 


ir,2  SBGAR  ALLAN  POE 


Take  the  wings 

Of  morning,  and  the  Barcan  desert  pierce, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon, 

But  these  are  trivial  faults  indeed  and  the  poem 
embodies  a  great  degree  of  the  most  elevated  beauty. 
Two  of  its  passages,  passages  of  the  purest  ideality, 
would  alone  render  it  worthy  of  the  general  commen 
dation  it  has  received. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  that  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry  slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon ;  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

The  hills 

Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun — the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietude  between — • 
The  venerable  woods — rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green — and,  poured  round  all, 
Old  Ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man. 

"Oh,  fairest  of  the  Rural  Maids!"  is  a  gem,  of 
which  we  cannot  sufficiently  express  our  admiration. 
We  quote  in  full. 

Oh,  fairest  of  the  rural  maids! 
Thy  birth  was  in  the  forest  shades; 
Green  boughs  and  glimpses  of  the  sky 
Were  all  that  met  thine  infant  eye. 

Thy  sports,  thy  wanderings  when  a  child 
Were  ever  in  the  sylvan  wild ; 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  place 
Is  in  thy  heart  and  on  thy  face. 


THE  CRITIC  103 


The  twilight  of  the  trees  and  rocks 
Is  in  the  light  shade  of  thy  locks, 
Thy  step  is  as  the  wind  that  weaves 
Its  playful  way  among  the  leaves. 

Thine  eyes  are  springs,  in  whose  serene 
And  silent  waters  Heaven  is  seen ; 
Their  lashes  are  the  herbs  that  look 
On  their  young  figures  in  the  brook. 

The  forest  depths  by  foot  impressed 
Are  not  more  sinless  than  thy  breast; 
The  holy  peace  that  fills  the  air 
Of  those  calm  solitudes,  is  there. 

A  rich  simplicity  is  a  main  feature  in  this  poem — sim 
plicity  of  design  and  execution.  This  is  strikingly  per 
ceptible  in  the  opening  and  concluding  lines,  and  in 
expression  throughout.  But  there  is  a  far  higher  and 
more  strictly  ideal  beauty,  which  it  is  less  easy  to  ana 
lyze.  The  original  conception  is  of  the  very  loftiest 
order  of  true  Poesy.  A  maiden  is  born  in  the  forest — 

Green  boughs  and  glimpses  of  the  sky 
Are  all  which  meet  her  infant  eye — 

She  is  not  merely  modelled  In  character  by  the  associa 
tion  of  her  childhood — this  were  the  thought  of  an  or 
dinary  poet — an  idea  that  we  meet  with  every  day  in 
rhyme — but  she  imbibes,  in  her  physical  as  well  as 
moral  being,  the  traits,  the  very  features  of  the  deli 
cious  scenery  around  her — its  loveliness  becomes  a 
portion  of  her  own — 

The  twilight  of  the  trees  and  rocks 
Is  in  the  light  shade  of  her  locks, 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  place 
Is  in  her  heart  and  on  her  face. 

It  would  have  been  a  highly  poetical  idea  to  imagine 
the  tints  in  the  locks  of  the  maiden  deducing  a  resem- 


io4  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

blance  to  the  "twilight  of  the  trees  and  rocks,"  from  the 
constancy  of  her  associations — but  the  spirit  of  Ideal 
ity  is  immeasurably  more  apparent  when  the  "twi 
light"  is  represented  as  becoming  identified  with  the 
shadows  of  her  hair. 

The  twilight  of  the  trees  and  rocks 
Is  in  the  light  shade  of  her  locks, 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  place 
Is  in  her  heart  and  on  her  face. 

Feeling  thus,  we  did  not,  in  copying  the  poem,  italicize 
the  lines,  although  beautiful, 

Thy  step  is  as  the  wind  that  weaves 
Its  playful  way  among  the  leaves, 

nor  those  which  immediately  follow.  The  two  con 
cluding  verses,  however,  are  again  of  the  most  ele 
vated  species  of  poetical  merit. 

The  forest  depths  by  foot  impressed 
Are  not  more  sinless  than  thy  breast — 
The  holy  peace  that  fills  the  air 
Of  those  calm  solitudes,  is  there. 

The  image  contained  in  the  lines 

Thine  eyes  are  springs  in  whose  serene 
And  silent  waters  Heaven  is  seen — 

is  one  which,  we  think,  for  appropriateness,  complete 
ness,  and  every  perfect  beauty  of  which  imagery  'is 
susceptible,  has  never  been  surpassed — but  imagery  is 
susceptible  of  no  beauty  like  that  we  have  designated 
in  the  sentences  above.  The  latter  idea,  moreover,  is 
not  original  with  our  poet. 

In  all  the  rhapsodies  of  Mr.  Bryant,  which  have 
reference  to  the  beauty  or  the  majesty  of  nature,  is  a 
most  audible  and  thrilling  tone  of  love  and  exultation. 


THE  CRITIC  105 

As  far  as  he  appreciates  her  loveliness  or  her  august- 
ness,  no  appreciation  can  be  more  ardent,  more  full  of 
heart,  more  replete  with  the  glowing  soul  of  adoration. 
Nor,  either  in  the  moral  or  physical  universe  coming 
within  the  periphery  of  his  vision,  does  he  at  any  time 
fail  to  perceive  and  designate,  at  once,  the  legitimate 
items  of  the  beautiful.  Therefore,  could  we  consider 
(as  some  have  considered)  the  mere  enjoyment  of  the 
beautiful  when  perceived,  or  even  this  enjoyment  when 
combined  with  the  readiest  and  truest  perception  and 
discrimination  in  regard  to  beauty  presented,  as  a  suf 
ficient  test  of  the  poetical  sentiment,  we  could  have  no 
hesitation  in  according  to  Mr.  Bryant  the  very  highest 
poetical  rank.  But  something  more,  we  have  else 
where  presumed  to  say,  is  demanded.  Just  above,  we 
spoke  of  "objects  in  the  moral  or  physical  universe 
coming  within  the  periphery  of  his  vision."  We  now 
mean  to  say,  that  the  relative  extent  of  these  periphe 
ries  of  poetical  vision  must  ever  be  a  primary  consid 
eration  in  our  classification  of  poets.  Judging  Mr.  B. 
in  this  manner,  and  by  a  general  estimate  of  the  vol 
ume  before  us,  we  should,  of  course,  pause  long  before 
assigning  him  a  place  with  the  spiritual  Shelleys,  or 
Coleridges,  or  Wordsworths,  or  with  Keats,  or  even 
Tennyson,  or  Wilson,  or  with  some  other  burning 
lights  of  our  own  day,  to  be  valued  in  a  day  to  come. 
Yet  if  his  poems,  as  a  whole,  will  not  warrant  us  in  as 
signing  him  this  grade,  one  such  poem  as  the  last  upon 
which  we  have  commented,  is  enough  to  assure  us  that 
he  may  attain  it. 

The  writings  of  our  author,  as  we  find  them  here, 
are  characterized  by  an  air  of  calm  and  elevated  con 
templation  more  than  by  any  other  individual  feature. 


io6  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

In  their  mere  didactics,  however,  they  err  essentially 
and  primitively,  inasmuch  as  such  things  are  the  prov 
ince  rather  of  Minerva  than  of  the  Camense.  Of  im* 
agination,  we  discover  much — but  more  of  its  rich  and 
certain  evidences,  than  of  its  ripened  fruit.  In  all  the 
minor  merits  Mr.  Bryant  is  pre-eminent.  His  ars 
celare  artem  is  most  efficient.  Of  his  "completeness," 
unity,  and  finish  of  style  we  have  already  spoken.  As 
a  versifier,  we  know  of  no  writer,  living  or  dead,  who 
can  be  said  greatly  to  surpass  him.  A  Frenchman 
would  assuredly  call  him  "un  poete  des  plus  correctes" 
Between  Cowper  and  Young,  perhaps,  (with  both 
of  whom  he  has  many  points  of  analogy,)  would  be  the 
post  assigned  him  by  an  examination  at  once  general 
and  superficial.  Even  in  this  view,  however,  he  has  a 
juster  appreciation  of  the  beautiful  than  the  one,  of  the 
sublime  than  the  other — a  finer  taste  than  Cowper — 
an  equally  vigorous,  and  far  more  delicate  imagination 
than  Young.  In  regard  to  his  proper  rank  among 
American  poets  there  should  be  no  question  whatever. 
Few — at  least  few  who  are  fairly  before  the  public, 
have  more  than  very  shallow  claims  to  a  rivalry  with 
the  author  of  "Thanatopsis." 

INDEFINITIVENESS    IN    SONG 

[National  Melodies  of  America,  by  George  P.  Mor 
ris,  reviewed  in  Burton's  Gentleman's  Magazine, 
December,  1839.  P°e  came  later  to  consider  "indefini- 
tiveness"  an  essential  of  poetry  whether  wedded  to 
song  or  not.  Of  Tennyson  he  writes  in  1844:  "There 
are  passages  in  his  works  which  rivet  a  conviction  I 
had  long  entertained,  that  the  indefinite  is  an  element 


THE  CRITIC  107 

in  the  true  Troths If  the  author  did  not  de 
liberately  propose  to  himself  [in  the  Lady  of  Shalott] 
a  suggestive  indefinitiveness  of  meaning,  with  the 
view  of  bringing  about  a  definitiveness  of  vague  and 
therefore  of  spiritual  effect — this,  at  least,  arose  from 
the  silent  analytical  promptings  of  that  poetic  genius 
which,  in  its  supreme  development,  embodies  all  orders 
of  intellectual  capacity."] 

There  are  few  cases  in  which  mere  popularity 
should  be  considered  a  proper  test  of  merit;  but  the 
case  of  song-writing  is,  I  think,  one  of  the  few.  In 
speaking  of  song-writing,  I  mean,  of  course,  the  com 
position  of  brief  poems  with  an  eye  to  their  adapta 
tion  for  music  in  the  vulgar  sense.  In  this  ultimate 
destination  of  the  song  proper,  lies  its  essence — its 
genius.  It  is  the  strict  reference  to  music — it  is  the 
dependence  upon  modulated  expression — which  gives 
to  this  branch  of  letters  a  character  altogether  unique, 
and  separates  it,  in  great  measure  and  in  a  manner  not 
sufficiently  considered,  from  ordinary  literature;  ren 
dering  it  independent  of  merely  ordinary  proprieties ; 
allowing  it,  and  in  fact  demanding  for  it,  a  wide  lati 
tude  of  Law ;  absolutely  insisting  upon  a  certain  wild 
license  and  indefinitiveness — an  indefinitiveness  recog 
nized  by  every  musician  who  is  not  a  mere  fiddler,  as 
an  important  point  in  the  philosophy  of  his  science — 
as  the  soul,  indeed,  of  the  sensations  derivable  from  its 
practice — sensations  which  bewilder  while  they  enthrall 
— and  which  would  not  so  enthrall  if  they  did  not  so 
bewilder. 

The  sentiments  deducible  from  the  conception  of 
sweet  sound  simply  are  out  of  the  reach  of  analysis— 


io8  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

although  referable,  possibly,  in  their  last  result,  to  that 
merely  mathematical  recognition  of  equality  which 
seems  to  be  the  root  of  all  Beauty.  Our  impressions 
of  harmony  and  melody  in  conjunction  are  more  read 
ily  analyzed;  but  one  thing  is  certain — that  the  senti 
mental  pleasure  derivable  from  music,  is  nearly  in  the 
ratio  of  its  indefinitiveness.  Give  to  music  any  undue 
decision — imbue  it  with  any  very  determinate  tone — 
and  you  deprive  it,  at  once,  of  its  ethereal,  its  ideal, 
and,  I  sincerely  believe,  of  its  intrinsic  and  essential 
character.  You  dispel  its  dream-like  luxury: — you 
dissolve  the  atmosphere  of  the  mystic  in  which  its 
whole  nature  is  bound  up: — you  exhaust  it  of  its 
breath  of  faery.  It  then  becomes  a  tangible  and  easily 
appreciable  thing — a  conception  of  the  earth,  earthy. 
It  will  not,  to  be  sure,  lose  all  its  power  to  please,  but 
all  that  I  consider  the  distinctiveness  of  that  power. 
And  to  the  oz^r-cultivated  talent,  or  to  the  unimagina 
tive  apprehension,  this  deprivation  of  its  most  delicate 
nare  will  be,  not  unfrequently,  a  recommendation.  A 
determinant eness  of  expression  is  sought — and  some 
times  by  composers  who  should  know  better — is 
sought  as  a  beauty,  rather  than  rejected  as  a  blemish. 
Thus  we  have,  even  from  high  authorities,  attempts  at 
absolute  imitation  in  musical  sounds.  Who  can  for 
get,  or  cease  to  regret,  the  many  errors  of  this  kind 
into  which  some  great  minds  have  fallen,  simply 
through  over-estimating  the  triumphs  of  skill.  Who 
can  help  lamenting  the  Battle  of  Prague?  What  man 
of  taste  is  not  ready  to  laugh,  or  to  weep,  over  their 
''guns,  drums,  trumpets,  blunderbusses  and  thunder?" 
'"'Vocal  music/'  says  L'Abbate  Gravina,  "ought  to 
imitate  the  natural  language  of  the  human  feelings  and 


THE  CRITIC  109 

passions,  rather  than  the  warbling  of  Canary  birds, 
which  our  singers,  now-a-days,  affect  so  vastly  to 
inimic  with  their  quaverings  and  boasted  cadences." 
This  is  true  only  so  far  as  the  "rather"  is  concerned. 
If  any  music  must  imitate  anything,  it  were,  undoubt 
edly,  better  that  the  imitation  should  be  limited  as 
Gravina  suggests. 

That  indefinitiveness  which  is,  at  least,  one  of  the 
essentials  of  true  music,  must,  of  course,  be  kept  in 
view  by  the  song-writer ;  while,  by  the  critic,  it  should 
always  be  considered  in  his  estimate  of  the  song.  It 
is,  in  the  author,  a  consciousness — sometimes  merely 
an  instinctive  appreciation,  of  this  necessity  for  the 
indefinite,  which  imparts  to  all  songs,  richly  conceived, 
that  free,  affluent,  and  hearty  manner,  little  scrupulous 
about  niceties  of  phrase,  which  cannot  be  better  ex 
pressed  than  by  the  hackneyed  French  word  abandonne- 
ment,  and  which  is  so  strikingly  exemplified  in  both 
the  serious  and  joyous  ballads  and  carols  of  our  old 
English  progenitors.  Wherever  verse  has  been  found 
most  strictly  married  to  music,  this  feature  prevails. 
It  is  thus  the  essence  of  all  antique  song.  It  is  the  soul 
of  Homer.  It  is  the  spirit  of  Anacreon.  It  is  even  the 
genius  of  JEschylus.  Coming  down  to  our  own  times, 
it  is  the  vital  principle  in  De  Beranger.  Wanting  this 
quality,  no  song-writer  was  ever  truly  popular,  and, 
for  the  reasons  assigned,  no  song-writer  need  ever 
expect  to  be  so. 

These  views  properly  understood,  it  will  be  seen 
how  baseless  are  the  ordinary  objections  to  songs 
proper,  on  the  score  of  "conceit"  (to  use  Johnson's 
word),  or  of  hyperbole,  or  on  various  other  grounds 
tenable  enough  in  respect  to  poetry  not  designed  for 


no  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

music.  The  "conceit,"  for  example,  which  some 
envious  rivals  of  Morris  have  so  much  objected  to — 

Her  heart  and  morning  broke  together 
In  the  storm— 

this  "conceit"  is  merely  in  keeping  with  the  essential 
spirit  of  the  song  proper.  To  all  reasonable  persons  it 
will  be  sufficient  to  say  that  the  fervid,  hearty,  free- 
spoken  songs  of  Cowley  and  of  Donne — more  especially 
of  Cunningham,  of  Harrington,  and  of  Carew — abound 
in  precisely  similar  things ;  and  that  they  are  to  be  met 
with,  plentifully,  in  the  polished  pages  of  Moore  and 
of  Beranger,  who  introduce  them  with  thought  and 
retain  them  after  mature  deliberation. 

Morris  is,  very  decidedly,  our  best  writer  of  songs 
— and,  in  saying  this,  I  mean  to  assign  him  a  high 
rank  as  poet.  For  my  own  part,  I  would  much  rather 
have  written  the  best  song  of  a  nation  than  its  noblest 
epic. 

FANCY    AND    IMAGINATION 

[Alciphron,  by  Thomas  Moore,  reviewed  in  Bur 
ton's  Gentleman's  Magazine,  January,  1840.  Compare 
the  review  of  The  Culprit  Fay,  pages  82-93.  The 
subject  is  discussed  in  chapter  XIII  of  Coleridge's 
Biographia  Liter  aria  and  in  the  latter  half  of  Words 
worth's  Preface  of  1815.  Poe  further  elaborates  the 
theme  in  The  Broadway  Journal,  January  18,  1845. 
"The  fact  seems  to  be,"  he  says,  "that  Imagination, 
Fancy,  Fantasy,  and  Humor  have  in  common  the  ele 
ments  Combination  and  Novelty.  The  Imagination  is 
the  artist  of  the  four."] 

A  new  poem  from  Moore  calls  to  mind  that  critical 
opinion  respecting  him  which  had  its  origin,  we  be- 


THE  CRITIC  in 

lieve,  in  the  dogmatism  of  Coleridge — we  mean  the 
opinion  that  he  is  essentially  the  poet  of  fancy — the 
term  being  employed  in  contradistinction  to  imagina 
tion.  "The  fancy,"  says  the  author  of  the  "Auncient 
Mariner,"  in  his  "Biographia  Literaria,"  "the  fancy 
combines,  the  imagination  creates."  And  this  was  in 
tended,  and  has  been  received,  as  a  distinction.  If  so 
at  all,  it  is  one  without  a  difference ;  without  even  a 
difference  of  degree.  The  fancy  as  nearly  creates  as 
the  imagination;  and  neither  creates  in  any  respect. 
All  novel  conceptions  are  merely  unusual  combinations. 
The  mind  of  man  can  imagine  nothing  which  has  not 
really  existed ;  and  this  point  is  susceptible  of  the  most 
positive  demonstration — see  the  Baron  de  Bielfeld,  in 
his  "Premiers  Traits  de  L'Erudition  Universelle," 
1767.  It  will  be  said,  perhaps,  that  we  can  imagine  a 
griffin,  and  that  a  griffin  does  not  exist.  Not  the 
griffin  certainly,  but  its  component  parts.  It  is  a  mere 
compendium  of  known  limbs  and  features — of  known 
qualities.  Thus  with  all  which  seems  to  be  new — • 
which  appears  to  be  a  creation  of  intellect.  It  is  resol 
uble  into  the  old.  The  wildest  and  most  vigorous  ef 
fort  of  mind  cannot  stand  the  test  of  this  analysis. 

We  might  make  a  distinction,  of  degree,  between 
the  fancy  and  the  imagination,  in  saying  that  the  latter 
is  the  former  loftily  employed.  But  experience  proves 
this  distinction  to  be  unsatisfactory.  What  we  feel  and 
know  to  be  fancy,  will  be  found  still  only  fanciful, 
whatever  be  the  theme  which  engages  it.  It  retains 
its  idiosyncrasy  under  all  circumstances.  No  subject 
exalts  it  into  the  ideal.  We  might  exemplify  this  by 
reference  to  the  writings  of  one  whom  our  patriotism, 
rather  than  our  judgment,  has  elevated  to  a  niche  in 


H2  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

the  Poetic  Temple  which  he  does  not  becomingly  fill, 
and  which  he  cannot  long  uninterruptedly  hold.  We 
allude  to  the  late  Dr.  Rodman  Drake,  whose  puerile 
abortion,  "The  Culprit  Fay,"  we  examined,  at  some 
length,  in  a  critique  elsewhere;  proving  it,  we  think, 
beyond  all  question,  to  belong  to  that  class  of  the 
pseudo-ideal,  in  dealing  with  which  we  find  ourselves 
embarrassed  between  a  kind  of  half-consciousness  that 
we  ought  to  admire,  and  the  certainty  that  we  do  not. 
Dr.  Drake  was  employed  upon  a  good  subject — at 
least  it  is  a  subject  precisely  identical  with  those  which 
Shakespeare  was  wont  so  happily  to  treat,  and  in 
which,  especially,  the  author  of  ''Lilian"  has  so  won 
derfully  succeeded.  But  the  American  has  brought  to 
his  task  a  mere  fancy,  and  has  grossly  failed  in  doing 
what  many  suppose  him  to  have  done — in  writing  an 
ideal  or  imaginative  poem.  There  is  not  one  particle 
of  the  true  rcoiV«S  about  "The  Culprit  Fay."  We 
say  that  the  subject,  even  at  its  best  points,  did  not  aid 
Dr.  Drake  in  the  slightest  degree.  He  was  never  more 

than  fanciful 

The  .truth  is  that  the  just  distinction  between  the 
fancy  and  the  imagination  (and  which  is  still  but  a 
distinction  of  degree)  is  involved  in  the  consideration 
of  the  mystic.  We  give  this  as  an  idea  of  our  own, 
altogether.  We  have  no  authority  for  our  opinion — 
but  do  not  the  less  firmly  hold  it.  The  term  mystic 
is  here  employed  in  the  sense  of  Augustus  William 
Schlegel,  and  of  most  other  German  critics.  It  is  ap 
plied  by  them  to  that  class  of  composition  in  which 
there  lies  beneath  the  transparent  upper  current  of 
meaning,  an  under  or  suggestive  one.  What  we 
vaguely  term  the  moral  of  any  sentiment  is  its  mystic 


THE  CRITIC  113 

or  secondary  expression.  It  has  the  vast  force  of  an 
accompaniment  in  music.  This  vivifies  the  air ;  that 
spiritualizes  the  fanciful  conception,  and  lifts  it  into 
the  ideal. 

This  theory  will  bear,  we  think,  the  most  rigorous 
tests  which  can  be  made  applicable  to  it,  and  will  be 
acknowledged  as  tenable  by  all  who  are  themselves 
imaginative.  If  we  carefully  examine  those  poems, 
or  portions  of  poems,  or  those  prose  romances,  w7hich 
mankind  have  been  accustomed  to  designate  as 
imaginative,  (for  an  instinctive  feeling  leads  us  to  em 
ploy  properly  the  term  whose  full  import  we  have  still 
never  been  able  to  define,)  it  will  be  seen  that  all  so 
designated  are  remarkable  for  the  suggestive  character 
which  we  have  discussed.  They  are  strongly  mystic — 
in  the  proper  sense  of  the  word.  We  will  here  only 
call  to  the  reader's  mind  the  "Prometheus  Vinctus"  of 
^Eschylus;  the  "Inferno"  of  Dante;  the  "Destruc 
tion  of  Numantia"  by  Cervantes ;  the  "Comus"  of  Mil 
ton;  the  "Auncient  Mariner,"  the  "Christabel,"  and 
the  "Kubla  Khan"  of  Coleridge ;  the  "Nightingale"  of 
Keats ;  and,  most  especially,  the  "Sensitive  Plant"  of 
Shelley,  and  the  "Undine"  of  De  La  Motte  Fouque. 
These  two  latter  poems  (for  we  call  them  both  such) 
are  the  finest  possible  examples  of  the  purely  ideal. 
There  is  little  of  fancy  here,  and  everything  of  imagin 
ation.  With  each  note  of  the  lyre  is  heard  a  ghostly, 
and  not  always  a  distinct,  but  an  august  and  soul- 
exalting  echo.  In  every  glimpse  of  beauty  presented, 
we  catch,  through  long  and  wild  vistas,  dim  bewilder 
ing  visions  of  a  far  more  ethereal  beauty  beyond.  But 
not  so  in  poems  which  the  world  has  always  persisted 
in  terming  fanciful.  Here  the  upper  current  is  often 


ii4  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

exceedingly  brilliant  and  beautiful;  but  then  men  feel 
that  this  upper  current  is  all.  No  Naiad  voice  addresses 
them  from  below.  The  notes  of  the  air  of  the  song  do 
not  tremble  with  the  according  tones  of  the 
accompaniment. 

It  is  the  failure  to  perceive  these  truths  which  has 
occasioned  that  embarrassment  which  our  critics  ex 
perience  while  discussing  the  topic  of  Moore's  station 
in  the  poetic  world — that  hesitation  with  which  we  are 
obliged  to  refuse  him  the  loftiest  rank  among  the  most 
noble.  The  popular  voice,  and  the  popular  heart,  have 
denied  him  that  happiest  quality,  imagination — and 
here  the  popular  voice  (because  for  once  it  has  gone 
with  the  popular  heart)  is  right,  but  yet  only  relatively 
so.  Imagination  is  not  the  leading  feature  of  the 
poetry  of  Moore;  but  he  possesses  it  in  no  little 
degree. 

We  will  quote  a  few  instances  from  the  poem  now 
before  us — instances  which  will  serve  to  exemplify  the 
distinctive  features  which  we  have  attributed  to 
ideality. 

It  is  the  suggestive  force  which  exalts  and  ethere- 
alizes  the  passages  we  copy. 

Or  is  it  that  there  lurks,  indeed, 
Some  truth  in  man's  prevailing  creed, 
And  that  our  guardians  from  on  high 

Come,  in  that  pause  from  toil  and  sin, 
To  put  the  senses'  curtain  by, 

And  on  the  wakeful  soul  look  in ! 

Again — 

The  eternal  pyramids  of  Memphis  burst 

Awfully  on  my  sight — standing  sublime 

'Twixt  earth  and  heaven,  the  watch-towers  of  time, 

From  whose  lone  summit,  when  his  reign  hath  past, 

From  earth  for  ever,  he  will  look  his  last. 


THE  CRITIC  115 


And  again — 


Is  there  for  man  no  hope— but  this  which  dooms 

His  only  lasting  trophies  to  be  tombs ! 

But  'tis  not  so — earth,  heaven,  all  nature  shows 

He  may  become  immortal,  may  unclose 

The  wings  within  him  wrapt,  and  proudly  rise 

Redeemed  from  earth  a  creature  of  the  skies ! 

And  here — 

The  pyramid  shadows,  stretching  from  the  light, 
Look  like  the  first  colossal  steps  of  night, 
Stalking  across  the  valley  to  invade 
The  distant  hills  of  prophyry  with  their  shade! 

And  once  more — 

Their  Silence,  thoughtful  God,  who  loves 
The  neighbourhood  of  Death,  in  groves 
Of  asphodel  lies  hid,  and  weaves 
His  hushing  spell  among  the  leaves. 

Such  lines  as  these,  we  must  admit,  however,  are 
not  of  frequent  occurrence  in  the  poem — the  sum  of 
whose  great  beauty  is  composed  of  the  several  sums 
of  a  world  of  minor  excellencies. 

Moore  has  always  been  renowned  for  the  number 
and  appositeness,  as  well  as  novelty,  of  his  similes ; 
and  the  renown  thus  acquired  is  strongly  indicial  of 
his  deficiency  in  that  nobler  merit — the  noblest  of 
them  all.  No  poet  thus  distinguished  was  ever  richly 
ideal.  Pope  and  Cowper  are  remarkable  instances  in 
point.  Similes  (so  much  insisted  upon  by  the  critics 
of  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne)  are  never,  in  our  opinion, 
strictly  in  good  taste,  whatever  may  be  said  to  the  con 
trary,  and  certainly  can  never  be  made  to  accord  with 
other  high  qualities,  except  when  naturally  arising 
from  the  subject  in  the  way  of  illustration — and,  when 
thus  arising,  they  have  seldom  the  merit  of  novelty. 


ii6  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

To  be  novel,  they  must  fail  in  essential  particulars. 
The  higher  minds  will  avoid  their  frequent  use.  They 
form  no  portion  of  the  ideal,  and  appertain  to  the 
fancy  alone. 

THE  NATURE  AND  INTEREST  OF  PLOT 

[Bulwer's  Night  and  Morning,  reviewed  in  Gra 
ham's  Magazine,  April,  1841.  In  his  Marginalia  (1844) 
and  again  in  Eureka  (1848),  Poe  calls  attention  to  the 
"mutuality"  or  adaptation  in  nature,  or  the  "reciproc 
ity  between  cause  and  effect."  He  thus  summarizes 
and  applies :  "The  pleasure  which  we  derive  from 
any  exertion  of  human  ingenuity  is  in  the  direct  ratio 
of  the  approach  to  this  species  of  reciprocity  between 
cause  and  effect.  In  the  construction  of  plot,  for  ex 
ample,  in  fictitious  literature,  we  should  aim  at  so  ar 
ranging  the  points,  or  incidents,  that  we  cannot  dis 
tinctly  see,  in  respect  to  any  one  of  them,  whether  that 
one  depends  upon  any  one  other,  or  upholds  it.  In 
this  sense,  of  course,  perfection  of  plot  is  unattainable 
in  fact, — because  Man  is  the  constructor.  The  plots 
of  God  are  perfect.  The  Universe  is  a  Plot  of  God."] 

We  do  not  give  this  as  the  plot  of  "Night  and 
Morning,"  but  as  the  groundwork  of  the  plot ;  which 
latter,  woven  from  the  incidents  above  mentioned,  is  in 
itself  exceedingly  complex.  The  groundwork,  as  will 
be  seen,  is  of  no  original  character — it  is  even  absurdly 
commonplace.  We  are  not  asserting  too  much  when 
we  say  that  every  second  novel  since  the  flood  has 
turned  upon  some  series  of  hopeless  efforts,  either  to 
establish  legitimacy,  or  to  prove  a  will,  or  to  get  pos 
session  of  a  great  sum  of  money  most  unjustly  with 
held,  or  to  find  a  ragamuffin  of  a  father,  who  had  been 


THE  CRITIC  117 

much  better  left  unfound.  But,  saying  nothing  of  the 
basis  upon  which  this  story  has  been  erected,  the  story 
itself  is,  in  many  respects,  worthy  its  contriver. 

The  word  plot,  as  commonly  accepted,  conveys  but 
an  indefinite  meaning.  Most  persons  think  of  it  as  a 
simple  complexity;  and  into  this  error  even  so  fine  a 
critic  as  Augustus  William  Schlegel  has  obviously  fall 
en,  when  he  confounds  its  idea  with  that  of  the  mere 
intrigue  in  which  the  Spanish  dramas  of  Cervantes 
and  Calderon  abound.  But  the  greatest  involution  of 
incident  will  not  result  in  plot;  which,  properly  de 
fined,  is  that  in  which  no  part  can  be  displaced  zvithout 
ruin  to  the  whole.  It  may  be  described  as  a  building 
so  dependently  constructed,  that  to  change  the  position 
of  a  single  brick  is  to  overthrow  the  entire  fabric.  In 
this  definition  and  description,  we  of  course  refer  only 
to  that  infinite  perfection  which  the  true  artist  bears 
ever  in  mind — that  unattainable  goal  to  which  his  eyes 
are  always  directed,  but  of  the  possibility  of  attaining 
which  he  still  endeavours,  if  wise,  to  cheat  himself  into 
the  belief.  The  reading  world,  however,  is  satisfied 
with  a  less  rigid  construction  of  the  term.  It  is  con 
tent  to  think  that  plot  a  good  one,  in  which  none  of  the 
leading  incidents  can  be  removed  without  detriment  to 
the  mass.  Here  indeed  is  a  material  difference ;  and 
in  this  view  of  the  case  the  plot  of  "Night  and  Morn 
ing"  is  decidedly  excellent.  Speaking  comparatively, 
and  in  regard  to  stories  similarly  composed,  it  is  one  of 
the  best.  This  the  author  has  evidently  designed  to 
make  it.  For  this  purpose  he  has  taxed  his  powers  to 
the  utmost.  Every  page  bears  marks  of  excessive 
elaboration,  all  tending  to  one  point — a  perfect  adap 
tation  of  the  very  numerous  atoms  of  a  very  unusually 


ii8  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

involute  story.  The  better  to  attain  his  object  he  has 
resorted  to  the  expedient  of  writing  his  book  back 
wards.  This  is  a  simple  thing  in  itself,  but  may  not 
be  generally  understood.  An  example  will  best  con 
vey  the  idea.  Drawing  near  the  denouement  of  his 
*tale,  our  novelist  had  proceeded  so  far  as  to  render  it 
necessary  that  means  should  be  devised  for  the  dis 
covery  of  the  missing  marriage  record.  This  record 
is  in  the  old  bureau — this  bureau  is  at  Fernside,  origi 
nally  the  seat  of  Philip's  father,  but  now  in  possession 
of  one  Lord  Lilburne,  a  member  of  Robert  Beaufort's 
family.  Two  things  now  strike  the  writer — first,  that 
the  retrieval  of  the  hero's  fortune  should  be  brought 
about  by  no  less  a  personage  than  the  heroine — by 
some  lady  who  should  in  the  end  be  his  bride — and, 
secondly,  that  this  lady  must  procure  access  to  Fern- 
side.  Up  to  this  period  in  the  narrative,  it  had  been 
the  design  to  make  Camilla  Beaufort,  Philip's  cousin, 
the  heroine ;  but  in  such  case,  the  cousin  and  Lord  Lil 
burne  being  friends,  the  document  must  have  been  ob 
tained  by  fair  means ;  whereas  foul  means  are  the  most 
dramatic.  There  would  have  been  no  difficulties  to 
overcome  in  introducing  Camilla  into  the  house  in 
question.  She  would  have  merely  rung  the  bell  and 
walked  in.  Moreover,  in  getting  the  paper,  she  would 
have  had  no  chance  of  getting  up  a  scene.  This  lady 
is  therefore  dropped  as  the  heroine ;  Mr.  Bulwer  re 
traces  his  steps,  creates  Fanny,  brings  Philip  to  love 
her,  and  employs  Lilburne  (a  courtly  villain,  invented 
for  all  the  high  dirty  work,  as  De  Burgh  Smith  for  all 
the  low  dirty  work  of  the  story) — employs  Lilburne  to 
abduct  her  to  Fernside,  where  the  capture  of  the  docu 
ment  is  at  length  (more  dramatically  than  naturally) 


THE  CRITIC  119 

contrived.  In  short,  the  latter  incidents  were  emenda 
tions,  and  their  really  episodical  character  is  easily 
traced  by  the  critic.  What  appears  first  in  the  pub 
lished  book,  was  last  in  the  original  MS.  Many  of  the 
most  striking  portions  of  the  novel  were  interleaved  in 
the  same  manner — thus  giving  to  afterthought  that  air 
of  premeditation  which  is  so  pleasing.  Effect  seems 
to  follow  cause  in  the  most  natural  and  in  the  most 
provident  manner,  but,  in  the  true  construction,  the 
cause  (and  here  we  commit  no  bull)  is  absolutely 
brought  about  by  effect.  The  many  brief,  and  seem 
ingly  insulated  chapters  met  with  in  the  course  of  the 
narrative  are  the  interposed  afterthoughts  in  question. 

We  have  defined  the  word  plot  in  a  definition  of 
our  own  to  be  sure,  but  in  one  which  we  do  not  the  less 
consider  substantially  correct ;  and  we  have  said  that 
it  has  been  a  main  point  with  Mr.  Bulwer  in  his  last 
novel,  "Night  and  Morning,"  to  work  up  his  plot  as 
near  perfection  as  possible.  We  have  asserted,  too, 
that  his  design  is  well  accomplished ;  but  we  do  not  the 
less  assert  that  it  has  been  conceived  and  executed  in 
error. 

The  interest  of  plot,  referring,  as  it  does,  to  culti 
vated  thought  in  the  reader,  and  appealing  to  consid 
erations  analogous  with  those  which  are  the  essence 
of  sculptural  taste,  is  by  no  means  a  popular  interest ; 
although  it  has  the  peculiarity  of  being  appreciated  in 
its  atoms  by  all,  while  in  its  totality  of  beauty  it  is  com 
prehended  but  by  the  few.  The  pleasure  which  the 
many  derive  from  it  is  disjointed,  ineffective,  and 
evanescent ;  and  even  in  the  case  of  the  critical  reader 
it  is  a  pleasure  which  may  be  purchased  too  dearly. 


120  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

A-  good  tale  may  be  written  without  it.  Some  of  the 
finest  fictions  in  the  world  have  neglected  it  alto 
gether.  We  see  nothing  of  it  in  "Gil  Bias,"  in  the 
"Pilgrim's  Progress,"  or  in  "Robinson  Crusoe."  Thus  it 
is  not  an  essential  in  story-telling  at  all ;  although,  well 
managed,  within  proper  limits,  it  is  a  thing  to  be  de 
sired.  At  best  it  is  but  a  secondary  and  rigidly  artis- 
tical  merit,  for  which  no  merit  of  a  higher  class — no 
merit  founded  in  nature — should  be  sacrificed.  But 
in  the  book  before  us  much  is  sacrificed  for  its  sake, 
and  every  thing  is  rendered  subservient  to  its  pur 
poses.  So  excessive  is,  here,  the  involution  of  circum 
stances,  that  it  has  been  found  impossible  to  dwell  for 
more  than  a  brief  period  upon  any  particular  one. 
The  writer  seems  in  a  perpetual  hurry  to  accomplish 
what,  in  autorial  parlance,  is  called  "bringing  up  one's 
time."  He  flounders  in  the  vain  attempt  to  keep  all 
his  multitudinous  incidents  at  one  and  the  same  mo 
ment  before  the  eye.  His  ability  has  been  sadly  taxed 
in  the  effort — but  more  sadly  the  time  and  temper  of 
the  reader.  No  sooner  do  we  begin  to  take  some 
slight  degree  of  interest  in  some  cursorily-sketched 
event,  than  we  are  hurried  off  to  some  other,  for  which 
a  new  feeling  is  to  be  built  up,  only  to  be  tumbled 
down,  forthwith,  as  before.  And  thus,  since  there  is 
no  sufficiently  continuous  scene  in  the  whole  novel,  it 
results  that  there  is  no  strongly  effective  one.  Time 
not  being  given  us  in  which  to  become  absorbed,  we 
are  only  permitted  to  admire,  while  we  are  not  the  less 
chilled,  tantalized,  weaned,  and  displeased.  Nature, 
with  natural  interest,  has  been  given  up  a  bond-maiden 
to  an  elaborate  but  still  to  a  misconceived,  perverted, 
and  most  unsatisfactory  Art. 


THE  CRITIC  121 

Very  little  reflection  might  have  sufficed  to  con 
vince  Mr.  Bulwer  that  narratives,  even  one  fourth  as 
long  as  the  one  now  lying  upon  our  table,  are  essen 
tially  inadapted  to  that  nice  and  complex  adjustment 
of  incident  at  which  he  has  made  this  desperate  at 
tempt.  In  the  wire-drawn  romances  which  have  been 
so  long  fashionable  (God  only  knows  how  or  why)  the 
pleasure  we  derive  (if  any)  is  a  composite  one,  and 
made-  up  of  the  respective  sums  of  the  various  pleas 
urable  sentiments  experienced  in  perusal.  Without 
excessive  and  fatiguing  exertion,  inconsistent  with  le 
gitimate  interest,  the  mind  cannot  comprehend  at  one 
time  and  in  one  survey  the  numerous  individual  items 
which  go  to  establish  the  whole.  Thus  the  high  ideal 
sense  of  the  unique  is  sure  to  be  wanting ;  for,  how 
ever  absolute  in  itself  be  the  unity  of  the  novel,  it  must 
inevitably  fail  of  appreciation.  We  speak  now  of  that 
species  of  unity  which  is  alone  worth  the  attention  of 
the  critic — the  unity  or  totality  of  effect. 

But  we  could  never  bring  ourselves  to  attach  any 
idea  of  merit  to  mere  length  in  the  abstract.  A  long 
btory  does  not  appear  to  us  necessarily  twice  as  good 
as  one  only  half  so  long.  The  ordinary  talk  about 
"continuous  and  sustained  effort"  is  pure  twaddle  and 
nothing  more.  Perseverance  is  one  thing  and  genius 
is  another, — whatever  Buffon  or  Hogarth  may  assert 
to  the  contrary, — and  notwithstanding  that,  in  many 
passages  of  the  dogmatical  literature  of  old  Rome, 
such  phrases  as  "diligentia  maxima,"  "diligentia  mi- 
rabilis"  can  be  construed  only  as  "great  talent"  or 
"wonderful  ability."  Now  if  the  author  of  "Ernest 
Maltravers,"  implicitly  following  authority  like  les 
moutons  de  Panurge,  will  persist  in  writing  long  ro- 


122  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

mances,  because  long  romances  have  been  written  be- 
forej — if;  in  short,  he  cannot  be  satisfied  with  the  brief 
tale  (a  species  of  composition  which  admits  of  the 
highest  development  of  artistical  power  in  alliance 
with  the  wildest  vigour  of  imagination), — he  must 
then  content  himself,  perforce,  with  a  more  simply  and 
more  rigidly  narrative  form. 

And  here,  could  he  see  these  comments  upon  a 
work  which  (estimating  it,  as  is  the  wont  of  all  artists 
of  his  calibre,  by  the  labour  which  it  has  cost  him)  he 
considers  his  chef  d'oewvre,  he  would  assure  us,  with 
a  smile,  that  it  is  precisely  because  the  book  is  not  nar 
rative  and  is  dramatic  that  he  holds  it  in  so  lofty  an  es 
teem.  Now  in  regard  to  its  being  dramatic,  we  should 
reply  that,  so  far  as  the  radical  and  ineradicable  defi 
ciencies  of  the  drama  go,  it  is.  This  continual  and 
vexatious  shifting  of  scene,  with  a  view  of  bringing  up 
events  to  the  time  being,  originated  at  a  period  when 
books  were  not ;  and  in  fact,  had  the  drama  not  pre 
ceded  books,  it  might  never  have  succeeded  them — we 
might,  and  probably  should,  never  have  had  a  drama 
at  all.  By  the  frequent  "bringing  up"  of  his  events  the 
dramatist  strove  to  supply,  as  well  as  he  could,  the 
want  of  the  combining,  arranging,  and  especially  of 
the  commenting  power,  now  in  possession  of  the  nar 
rative  author.  No  doubt  it  was  a  deep  but  vague 
sense  of  this  want  which  brought  into  birth  the  Greek 
chorus — a  thing  altogether  apart  from  the  drama  it 
self,  never  upon  the  stage — and  representing  or  per 
sonifying  the  expression  of  the  sympathy  of  the  audi 
ence  in  the  matters  transacted. 

In  brief,  while  the  drama  of  colloquy,  vivacious  and 
breathing  of  life,  is  well  adapted  to  narration,  the 


THE  CRITIC  123 

drama  of  action  and  passion  will  always  prove,  when 
employed  beyond  due  limits,  a  source  of  embarrass 
ment  to  the  narrator,  and  it  can  afford  him,  at  best, 
nothing  which  he  does  not  already  possess  in  full  force. 
We  have  spoken  upon  this  head  much  at  length ;  for 
we  remember  that,  in  some  preface  to  one  of  his  pre 
vious  novels  (some  preface  in  which  he  endeavoured 
to  pre-reason  and  pre-coax  us  into  admiration  of  what 
was  to  follow — a  bad  practice),  Mr.  Bulwer  was  at 
great  pains  to  insist  upon  the  peculiar  merits  of  what 
he  even  then  termed  the  dramatic  conduct  of  his  story. 
The  simple  truth  was  that,  then,  as  now,  he  had  merely 
concentrated  into  his  book  all  the  necessary  evils  of  the 
stage. 

Giving  up  his  attention  to  the  one  point  upon  which 
we  have  commented,  our  novelist  has  failed  to  do  him 
self  justice  in  others.  The  overstrained  effort  at  per 
fection  of  plot  has  seduced  him  into  absurd  sacrifices 
of  verisimilitude,  as  regards  the  connexion  of  his  dra 
matis  persona  each  with  each  and  each  with  the  main 
events.  However  incidental  be  the  appearance  of  any 
personage  upon  the  stage,  this  personage  is  sure  to  be 
linked  in,  will  I  nill  I,  with  the  matters  in  hand. 
Philip,  on  the  stage  coach,  for  example,  converses  with 
but  one  individual,  William  Gawtrey ;  yet  this  man's 
fate  (not  subsequently  but  previously)  is  interwoven 
into  that  of  Philip  himself,  through  the  latter's  rela 
tionship  to  Lilburne.  The  hero  goes  to  his  mother's 
grave,  and  there  comes  into  contact  with  this  Gaw- 
trey's  father.  He  meets  Fanny,  and  Fanny  happens 
to  be  also  involved  in  his  destiny  (a  pet  word,  conveying 
a  pet  idea  of  the  author's)  through  her  relationship  to 
Lilburne.  The  witness  in  the  case  of  his  mother's 


124  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

marriage  is  missing,  and  this  individual  turns  up  at 
last  in  the  brother  of  that  very  Charles  De  Burgh 
Smith,  with  whom  so  perfectly  accidental  an  intimacy 
has  already  been  established.  The  wronged  heir  pro 
ceeds  at  random  to  look  for  a  lawyer,  and  stumbles  at 
once  upon  the  precise  one  who  had  figured  before  in 
the  story,  and  who  knows  all  about  previous  investigar 
tions.  Setting  out  in  search  of  Liancourt,  the  first 
person  he  sees  is  that  gentleman  himself.  Entering  a 
horse-bazaar  in  a  remote  portion  of  the  country,  the 
steed  up  for  sale  at  the  exact  moment  of  his  entrance 
is  recognized  as  the  pet  of  his  better  days.  Now  our 
quarrel  with  these  coincidences  is  not  that  they  some 
times,  but  that  they  everlastingly,  occur,  and  that  noth 
ing  occurs  besides.  We  find  no  fault  with  Philip  for 
chancing,  at  the  identically  proper  moment,  upon  the 
identical  men,  women,  and  horses  necessary  for  his 
own  ends  and  the  ends  of  the  story,  but  we  do  think  it 
excessively  hard  that  he  should  never  happen  upon 
any  thing  else. 

DEFECTS  IN  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  BARNABY  RUDGE 

[Barnaby  Rudge,  by  Charles  Dickens,  reviewed  in 
Graham's  Magazine,  February,  1842.  If  this  penetrat 
ing  review  is  not  creative  criticism,  it  is  re-creative  in 
a  unique  sense.  In  all  that  pertains  to  plot,  to  structure, 
to  suspense,  to  the  masterly  handling  of  convergent  de 
tails,  Poe  shows  here  a  genius  far  beyond  that  of  Dick 
ens.  Sir  Robertson  Nicoll,  in  The  Problem  of  Edwin 
Drood,  doubts  whether  Poe  or  any  one  else  wrote  for 
The  Saturday  Evening  Post,  of  Philadelphia,  May  I, 
1841,  the  "prospective  notice"  of  Barnaby  Rudge 


THE  CRITIC  125 

which  Poe  here  quotes  twice.  "If  Poe  wrote  that  ar 
ticle,"  so  runs  the  indictment,  "he  wrote  it  after  having 
read  the  fifth  chapter  of  Dickens's  novel."  The  pros 
pective  notice,  however,  has  since  been  discovered  and 
Poe's  self-quotations  are  accurate,  I  find,  to  the  mi 
nutest  detail.  But  of  course  he  had  read  the  fifth 
chapter.  When  he  says  that  "the  secret"  was  discov 
ered  as  soon  as  he  had  read  Solomon  Daisy's  story — 
that  is,  chapter  one — he  means  the  secret  of  the  real 
murderer,  not  the  secret  of  the  blood-smeared  wrist 
which  is  mentioned  for  the  first  time  in  chapter  five. 
And  when  Poe  adds  that  he  wrote  his  prospective  no 
tice  after  the  novel  had  been  ''only  begun,"  he  does 
not  mean  that  this  beginning  stopped  with  chapter  one. 
In  fact  the  prospective  notice  proves  to  be  a  notice  of 
"Nos.  i,  2,  and  3"  of  the  19  numbers  or  parts  that 
were  to  contain  the  entire  novel.  Number  I  is  known 
to  have  contained  the  first  three  chapters.  Is  it  con 
ceivable  that  numbers  2  and  3  stopped  short  of  chapter 
five  ?  Poe  did  not  attempt  to  deceive  anybody.  Dick 
ens  is  said  to  have  expressed  astonishment  at  the  de 
tective  ability  shown  in  the  prospective  notice,  but  the 
prospective  notice  is  not  equal  to  the  retrospective  no 
tice  that  follows.  You  will  observe,  by  the  way,  that 
the  next  to  the  last  paragraph  of  our  extract  contains 
the  egg  from  which  three  years  later  was  hatched  The 
Raven."] 

We  have  given,  as  may  well  be  supposed,  but  a 
very  meagre  outline  of  the  story,  and  we  have  given  it 
in  the  simple  or  natural  sequence.  That  is  to  say,  we 
have  related  the  events,  as  nearly  as  might  be,  in  the 
order  of  their  occurrence.  But  this  order  would  by 


126  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

no  means  have  suited  the  purpose  of  the  novelist, 
whose  design  has  been  to  maintain  the  secret  of  the 
murder,  and  the  consequent  mystery  which  encircles 
Rudge,  and  the  actions  of  his  wife,  until  the  catastro 
phe  of  his  discovery  by  Haredale.  The  thesis  of  the 
novel  may  thus  be  regarded  as  based  upon  curiosity. 
Every  point  is  so  arranged  as  to  perplex  the  reader, 
and  whet  his  desire  for  elucidation : — for  example,  the 
first  appearance  of  Rudge  at  the  Maypole;  his  ques 
tions  ;  his  persecution  of  Mrs.  R. ;  the  ghost  seen  by 
the  frequenter  of  the  Maypole ;  and  Haredale's  impres 
sive  conduct  in  consequence.  What  we  have  told,  in 
the  very  beginning  of  our  digest,  in  regard  to  the  shift 
ing  of  the  gardener's  dress,  is  sedulously  kept  from  the 
reader's  knowledge  until  he  learns  it  from  Rudge's 
own  confession  in  jail.  We  say  seduluously;  for,  the 
intention  once  known,  the  traces  of  the  design  can  be 
found  upon  every  page.  There  is  an  amusing  and  ex 
ceedingly  ingenious  instance  at  page  145,  where  Sol 
omon  Daisy  describes  his  adventure  with  the  ghost. 

"  'It  was  a  ghost — a  spirit,'  cried  Daisy. 

"'Whose?'  they  all  three  asked  together. 

"In  the  excess  of  his  emotion  (for  he  fell  back 
trembling  in  his  chair,  and  waved  his  hand  as  if  en^ 
treating  them  to  question  him  no  farther)  his  answer 
was  lost  upon  all  but  old  John  Willet,  who  happened 
to  be  seated  close  beside  him. 

"  'Who!'  cried  Parkes  and  Tom  Cob— 'Who  was  it?* 

;<  'Gentlemen,'  said  Mr.  Willet,  after  a  long  pause, 
'you  needn't  ask.  The  likeness  of  a  murdered  man. 
This  is  the  nineteenth  of  March/ 

"A  profound  silence  ensued." 


THE  CRITIC 


The  impression  here  skilfully  conveyed  is,  that  the 
ghost  seen  is  that  of  Reuben  Haredale  ;  and  the  mind 
of  the  not-too-acute  reader  is  at  once  averted  from  the 
true  state  of  the  case  —  from  the  murderer,  Rudge,  liv 
ing  in  the  body. 

Now  there  can  be  no  question  that,  by  such  means 
as  these,  many  points  which  are  comparatively  insipid 
in  the  natural  sequence  of  our  digest,  and  which  would 
have  been  comparatively  insipid  even  if  given  in  full 
detail  in  a  natural  sequence,  are  endued  with  the  inter 
est  of  mystery  ;  but  neither  can  it  be  denied  that  a  vast 
many  more  points  are  at  the  same  time  deprived  of  all 
effect,  and  become  null,  through  the  impossibility  of 
comprehending  them  without  the  key.  The  author, 
who,  cognizant  of  his  plot,  writes  with  this  cognizance 
continually  operating  upon  him,  and  thus  writes  to 
himself  in  spite  of  himself,  does  not,  of  course,  feel 
that  much  of  what  is  effective  to  his  own  informed 
perception,  must  necessarily  be  lost  upon  his  unin 
formed  readers  ;  and  he  himself  is  never  in  condition, 
as  regards  his  own  work,  to  bring  the  matter  to  test. 
But  the  reader  may  easily  satisfy  himself  of  the  valid 
ity  of  our  objection.  Let  him  re-peruse  "Barnaby 
Rudge,"  and  with  a  pre-comprehension  of  the  mys 
tery,  these  points  of  which  we  speak  break  out  in  all 
directions  like  stars,  and  throw  quadruple  brilliance 
over  the  narrative  —  a  brilliance  which  a  correct  taste 
will  at  once  declare  unprofitably  sacrificed  at  the 
shrine  of  the  keenest  interest  of  mere  mystery. 

The  design  of  mystery,  however,  being  once  deter 
mined  upon  by  an  author,  it  becomes  imperative,  first, 
that  no  undue  or  inartistical  means  be  employed  to 
conceal  the  secret  of  the  plot  ;  and,  secondly,  that  the 


128  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

secret  be  well  kept.  Now,  when,  at  page  16,  we  read 
that  "the  body  of  poor  Mr.  Rudge,  the  steward,  was 
found"  months  after  the  outrage,  etc.,  we  see  that  Mr. 
Dickens  has  been  guilty  of  no  misdemeanour  against 
Art  in  stating  what  was  not  the  fact ;  since  the  false 
hood  is  put  into  the  mouth  of  Solomon  Daisy,  and 
given  merely  as  the  impression  of  this  individual  and 
of  the  public.  The  writer  has  not  asserted  it  in  his 
own  person,  but  ingeniously  conveyed  an  idea  (false 
in  itself,  yet  a  belief  in  which  is  necessary  for  the  ef 
fect  of  the  tale)  by  the  mouth  of /one  of  his  characters. 
The  case  is  different,  however,  when  Mrs.  Rudge  is 
repeatedly  denominated  "the  widow."  It  is  the  author 
who,  himself,  frequently  so  terms  her.  This  is  disin 
genuous  and  inartistical :  accidentally  so,  of  course. 
(We  speak  of  the  matter  merely  by  way  of  illustrating 
our  point,  and  as  an  oversight  on  the  part  of  Mr. 
Dickens. 

That  the  secret  be  well  kept  is  obviously  necessary. 
A  failure  to  preserve  it  until  the  proper  moment  of  de 
nouement,  throws  all  into  confusion,  so  far  as  regards 
the  eff-ect  intended.  If  the  mystery  leak  out,  against 
the  author's  will,  his  purposes  are  immediately  at  odds 
and,  ends ;  for  he  proceeds  upon  the  supposition  that 
certain  impressions  do  exist,  which  do  not  exist,  in  the 
mind  of  his  readers.  We  are  not  prepared  to  say,  so 
positively  as  we  could  wish,  whether,  by  the  public  at 
large,  the  whole  mystery  of  the  murder  committed  by 
Rudge,  with  the  identity  of  the  Maypole  ruffian  with 
Rudge  himself,  was  fathomed  at  any  period  previous 
to  the  period  intended,  or,  if  so,  whether  at  a  period 
so  early  as  materially  to  interfere  with  the  interest  de 
signed  ;  but  we  are  forced,  through  sheer  modesty,  to 


THE  CRITIC  129 

suppose  this  the  case ;  since,  by  ourselves  individually, 
the  secret  was  distinctly  understood  immediately  upon 
the  perusal  of  the  story  of  Solomon  Daisy,  which  oc 
curs  at  the  seventh  page  of  this  volume  of  three  hun 
dred  and  twenty-three.  In  the  number  of  the  "Phil 
adelphia  Saturday  Evening  Post,"  for  May  the  1st, 
1841,  (the  tale  having  then  only  begun)  will  be  found 
a  prospective  notice  of  some  length,  in  which  we  made 
use  of  the  following  words : 

"That  Barnaby  is  the  son  of  the  murderer  may  not 
appear  evident  to  our  readers — but  we  will  explain. 
The  person  murdered  is  Mr.  Reuben  Haredale.  He 
was  found  assassinated  in  his  bed-chamber.  His  stew 
ard  (Mr.  Rudge,  senior)  and  his  gardener  (name  not 
mentioned)  are  missing.  At  first  both  are  suspected. 
'Some  months  afterward' — here  we  use  the  words  of 
the  story — 'the  steward's  body,  scarcely  to  be  recog 
nised  but  by  his  clothes,  and  the  watch  and  ring  he 
wore — was  found  at  the  bottom  of  a  piece  of  water  in 
the  grounds,  with  a  deep  gash  in  the  breast  where  he 
had  been  stabbed  by  a  knife.  He  was  only  partly 
dressed;  and  all  people  agreed  that  he  had  been  sit 
ting  up  reading  in  his  own  room,  where  there  were 
many  traces  of  blood,  and  was  suddenly  fallen  upon 
and  killed,  before  his  master/ 

"Now,  be  it  observed,  it  is  not  the  author  himself 
who  asserts  that  the  steward's  body  was  found;  he  has 
put  the  words  in  the  mouth  of  one  of  his  characters. 
His  design  is  to  make  it  appear,  in  the  denouement, 
that  the  steward,  Rudge,  first  murdered  the  gardener, 
then  went  to  his  master's  chamber,  murdered  him,  was 
interrupted  by  his  (Rudge's)  wife,  whom  he  seized 


130  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

and  held  by  the  twist,  to  prevent  her  giving  the  alarm 
— that  he  then,  after  possessing  himself  of  the  booty 
desired,  returned  to  the  gardener's  room,  exchanged 
clothes  with  him,  put  upon  the  corpse  his  own  watch 
and  ring,  and  secreted  it  where  it  was  afterwards  dis 
covered  at  so  late  a  period  that  the  features  could  not 
be  identified." 

The  differences  between  our  pre-conceived  ideas, 
as  here  stated,  and  the  actual  facts  of  the  story,  will  be 
found  immaterial.  The  gardener  was  murdered,  not 
before  but  after  his  master ;  and  that  Rudge's  wife 
seized  him  by  the  wrist,  instead  of  his  seizing  her,  has 
so  much  the  air  of  a  mistake  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Dick 
ens,  that  we  can  scarcely  speak  of  our  own  version  as 
erroneous.  The  grasp  of  a  murderer's  bloody  hand 
on  the  wrist  of  a  woman  enceinte,  would  have  been 
more  likely  to  produce  the  effect  described  (and  this 
every  one  will  allow)  than  the  grasp  of  the  hand  of 
the  woman,  upon  the  wrist  of  the  assassin.  We  may 
therefore  say  of  our  supposition  as  Talleyrand  said  of 
some  cockney's  bad  French — que  s'il  n'est  pas  Fran- 
$ais,  assurement  done  il  le  doit  etre — that  if  we  did  not 
rightly  prophesy,  yet,  at  least,  our  prophecy  should 
have  been  right. 

We  are  informed  in  the  Preface  to  "Barnaby 
Rudge"  that  "no  account  of  the  Gordon  Riots  having 
been  introduced  into  any  work  of  fiction,  and  the  sub 
ject  presenting  very  extraordinary  and  remarkable 
features,"  our  author  "was  led  to  project  this  tale." 
But  for  this  distinct  announcement  (for  Mr.  Dickens 
can  scarcely  have  deceived  himself)  we  should  have 
looked  upon  the  Riots  as  altogether  an  afterthought. 


THE  CRITIC  131 

It  is  evident  that  they  have  no  necessary  connexion! 
with  the  story.  In  our  digest,  which  carefully  in 
cludes  all  essentials  of  the  plot,  we  have  dismissed  the 
doings  of  the  mob  in  a  paragraph.  The  whole  event 
of  the  drama  would  have  proceeded  as  well  without  as 
with  them.  They  have  even  the  appearance  of  being 
forcibly  introduced.  In  our  compendium  above,  it 
will  be  seen  that  we  emphasized*  several  allusions  to  an 
interval  of  five  years.  The  action  is  brought  up  to  a 
certain  point.  The  train  of  events  is,  so  far,  uninter 
rupted — nor  is  there  any  apparent  need  of  interrup 
tion — yet  all  the  characters  are  now  thrown  forward 
for  a  period  of  five  years.  And  why?  We  ask  in 
vain.  It  is  not  to  bestow  upon  the  lovers  a  more  de 
corous  maturity  of  age — for  this  is  the  only  possible 
idea  which  suggests  itself — Edward  Chester  is  already 
eight-and-twenty,  and  Emma  Haredale  would,  in 
America  at  least,  be  upon  the  list  of  old  maids.  No — 
there  is  no  such  reason;  nor  does  there  appear  to  foe 
any  one  more  plausible  than  that,  as  it  is  now  the  year 
of  our  Lord  1775,  an  advance  of  five  years,  will  bring 
the  dramatis  persons  up  to  a  very  remarkable  period, 
affording  an  admirable  opportunity  for  their  display — 
the  period,  in  short,  of  the  "No  Popery"  riots.  This 
was  the  idea  with  which  we  were  forcibly  impressed  in 
perusal,  and  which  nothing  less  than  Mr.  Dickens' 
positive  assurance  to  the  contrary  would  have  been 
sufficient  to  eradicate. 

It  is,  perhaps,  but  one  of  a  thousand  instances  of 
the  disadvantages,  both  to  the  author  and  the  public,  of 
the  present  absurd  fashion  of  periodical  novel-writing, 
that  our  author  had  not  sufficiently  considered  or  de 
termined  upon  any  particular  plot  when  he  began  the 


132  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

story  now  under  review.  In  fact,  we  see,  or  fancy 
that  we  see,  numerous  traces  of  indecision — traces 
which  a  dexterous  supervision  of  the  complete  work 
might  have  enabled  him  to  erase.  We  have  already 
spoken  of  the  intermission  of  a  lustrum.  The  open 
ing  speeches  of  old  Chester  are  by  far  too  truly  gentle 
manly  for  his  subsequent  character.  The  wife  of 
Varden,  also,  is  too  wholesale  a  shrew  to  be  converted 
into  the  quiet  wife — the  original  design  was  to  punish 
her.  At  page  16,  we  read  thus — Solomon  Daisy  is 
telling  his  story : 

"  'I  put  as  good  a  face  upon  it  as  I  could,  and  muf 
fling  myself  up,  started  out  with  a  lighted  lantern  in 
one  hand  and  the  key  of  the  church  in  the  other' — at 
this  point  of  the  narrative,  the  dress  of  the  strange 
man  rustled  as  if  he  had  turned  to  hear  more  distinctly." 

Here  the  design  is  to  call  the  reader's  attention  to 
a  point  in  the  tale ;  but  no  subsequent  explanation  is 
made.  Again,  a  few  lines  below — 

"The  houses  were  all  shut  up,  and  the  folks  in 
doors,  and  perhaps  there  is  only  one  man  in  the  world 
who  knows  how  dark  it  really  was." 

Here  the  intention  is  still  more  evident,  but  there 
is  no  result.  Again,  at  page  54,  the  idiot  draws  Mr. 
Chester  to  the  window,  and  directs  his  attention  to  the 
clothes  hanging  upon  the  lines  in  the  yard : 

'  'Look  down,'  he  said  softly ;  'do  you  mark  how 
they  whisper  in  each  other's  ears,  then  dance  and  leap 


THE  CRITIC  133 

to  make  believe  they  are  in  sport?  Do  you  see  how 
they  stop  for  a  moment,  when  they  think  there  is  no 
one  looking,  and  mutter  among  themselves  again ;  and 
then  how  they  roll  and  gambol,  delighted  with  the 
mischief  they've  been  plotting?  Look  at  'em  now! 
See  how  they  whirl  and  plunge.  And  now  they  stop 
again,  and  whisper  cautiously  together — little  think 
ing,  mind,  how  often  I  have  lain  upon  the  ground  and 
watched  them.  I  say — what  is  it  that  they  plot  and 
hatch  ?  Do  you  know  ?'  " 

Upon  perusal  of  these  ravings,  we  at  once  sup 
posed  them  to  have  allusions  to  some  real  plotting ;  and 
even  now  we  cannot  force  ourselves  to  believe  them 
not  so  intended.  They  suggested  the  opinion  that 
Haredale  himself  would  be  implicated  in  the  murder, 
and  that  the  counsellings  alluded  to  might  be  those  of 
that  gentleman  with  Rudge.  It  is  by  no  means  impos 
sible  that  some  such  conception  wavered  in  the  mind 
of  the  author.  At  page  32  we  have  a  confirmation  of 
our  idea,  when  Varden  endeavours  to  arrest  the  mur 
derer  in  the  house  of  his  wife — 

"  'Come  back — come  back !'  exclaimed  the  woman, 
wrestling  with  and  clasping  him.  'Do  not  touch  him 
on  your  life.  He  carries  other  lives  besides  his  own.' '' 

The  denouement  fails  to  account  for  this 
exclamation. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  story  much  emphasis  is 
placed  upon  the  two  female  servants  of  Haredale,  and 
upon  his  journey  to  and  from  London,  as  well  as  upon 
his  wife.  We  have  merely  said,  in  our  digest,  that  he 


134  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

was  a  widower,  italicizing1  the  remark.  All  these 
other  points  are,  in  fact,  singularly  irrelevant,  in  the 
supposition  that  the  original  design  has  not  undergone 
modification. 

Again,  at  page  57,  when  Haredale  talks  of  "his 
dismantled  and  beggared  hearth,"  we  cannot  help  fan 
cying  that  the  author  had  in  view  some  different 
wrong,  or  series  of  wrongs,  perpetrated  by  Chester, 
than  any  which  appear  in  the  end.  This  gentleman, 
too,  takes  extreme  and  frequent  pains  to  acquire  do 
minion  over  the  rough  Hugh — this  matter  is  particu 
larly  insisted  upon  by  the  novelist — we  look,  of  course, 
for  some  important  result — but  the  filching  of  a  letter 
is  nearly  all  that  is  accomplished.  That  Barnaby's  de 
light  in  the  desperate  scenes  of  the  rebellion,  is  incon 
sistent  with  his  horror  of  blood,  will  strike  every 
reader;  and  this  inconsistency  seems  to  be  the  conse 
quence  of  the  afterthought  upon  which  we  have  al 
ready  commented.  In  fact  the  title  of  the  work,  the 
elaborate  and  pointed  manner  of  the  commencement, 
the  impressive  description  of  The  Warren,  and  espec 
ially  of  Mrs.  Rudge,  go  far  to  show  that  Mr.  Dickens 
has  really  deceived  himself — that  the  soul  of  the  plot, 
as  originally  conceived,  was  the  murder  of  Haredale, 
with  the  subsequent  discovery  of  the  murderer  in 
Rudge — but  that  this  idea  was  afterwards  abandoned, 
or  rather  suffered  to  be  merged  in  that  of  the  Popish 
Riots.  The  result  has  been  most  unfavourable.  That 
which,  of  itself,  would  have  proved  highly  effective, 
has  been  rendered  nearly  null  by  its  situation.  In  the 
multitudinous  outrage  and  horror  of  the  Rebellion, 
the  one  atrocity  is  utterly  whelmed  and  extinguished. 

The  reasons  of  this  deflection  from  the  first  pur- 


THE  CRITIC  135 

pose  appear  to  us  self-evident.  One  of  them  we  have 
already  mentioned.  The  other  is  that  our  author  dis 
covered,  when  too  late,  that  he  had  anticipated,  and 
thus  rendered  valueless,  his  chief  effect.  This  will  be 
readily  understood.  The  particulars  of  the  assassina 
tion  being  withheld,  the  strength  of  the  narrator  is  put 
forth,  in  the  beginning  of  the  story,  to  whet  curiosity 
in  respect  to  these  particulars ;  and,  so  far,  he  is  but  in 
proper  pursuance  of  his  main  design.  But  from  this 
intention  he  unwittingly  passes  into  the  error  of  exag 
gerating  anticipation.  And  error  though  it  be,  it  is  an 
error  wrought  with  consummate  skill.  What,  for  ex 
ample,  could  more  vividly  enhance  our  impression  of 
the  unknown  horror  enacted,  than  the  deep  and  endur 
ing  gloom  of  Haredale — than  the  Pilot's  inborn  awe  of 
blood — or,  especially,  than  the  expression  of  counte 
nance  so  imaginatively  attributed  to  Mrs.  Rudge — 
"the  capacity  for  expressing  terror — something  only 
dimly  seen,  but  never  absent  for  a  moment — the 
shadow  of  some  look  to  which  an  instant  of  intense 
and  most  unutterable  horror  only  could  have  given 
rise"?  But  it  is  a  condition  of  the  human  fancy  that 
the  promises  of  such  words  are  irredeemable.  In  the 
notice  before  mentioned  we  thus  spoke  upon  this 
topic : — 

"This  is  a  conception  admirably  adapted  to  whet  curi 
osity  in  respect  to  the  character  of  that  event  which  is 
hinted  at  as  forming  the  basis  of  the  story.  But  this 
observation  should  not  fail  to  be  made — that  the  anti 
cipation  must  surpass  the  reality ;  that  no  matter  how 
terrific  be  the  circumstances  which,  in  the  denouement 
shall  appear  to  have  occasioned  the  expression  of 


136  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

countenance  worn  habitually  by  Mrs.  Rudge,  still  they 
will  not  be  able  to  satisfy  the  mind  of  the  reader.  He 
will  surely  be  disappointed.  The  skilful  intimation  of 
horror  held  out  by  the  artist,  produces  an  effect  which 
will  deprive  his  conclusion  of  all.  These  intimations 
— these  dark  hints  of  some  uncertain  evil — are  often 
rhetorically  praised  as  effective — but  are  only  justly 
so  praised  where  there  is  no  denouement  whatever — 
where  the  reader's  imagination  is  left  to  clear  up  the 
mystery  for  itself — and  this  is  not  the  design  of  Mr. 
Dickens." 

And,  in  fact,  our  author  was  not  long  in  seeing  his 
precipitancy.  He  had  placed  himself  in  a  dilemma  from 
which  even  his  high  genius  could  not  extricate  him. 
He  at  once  shifts  the  main  interest — and  in  truth  we 
do  not  see  what  better  he  could  have  done.  The 
reader's  attention  becomes  absorbed  in  the  riots,  and 
he  fails  to  observe  that  what  should  have  been  the  true 
catastrophe  of  the  novel,  is  exceedingly  feeble  and 
ineffective. 

A  few  cursory  remarks: — Mr.  Dickens  fails  pecul 
iarly  in  pure  narration.  See,  for  example,  page  296, 
where  the  connexion  of  Hugh  and  Chester  is  detailed 
by  Varden.  See  also  in  "The  Curiosity  Shop,"  where, 
when  the  result  is  fully  known,  so  many  words  are 
occupied  in  explaining  the  relationship  of  the 
brothers. 

The  effect  of  the  present  narrative  might  have  been 
materially  increased  by  confining  the  action  within  the 
limits  of  London.  The  "Notre  Dame"  of  Hugo  af 
fords  a  fine  example  of  the  force  which  can  be  gained 
by  concentration,  or  unity  of  place.  The  unity  of  time 


THE  CRITIC  137 

is  also  sadly  neglected,  to  no  purpose,  in  "Barnaby 
Rudge." 

That  Rudge  should  so  long  and  so  deeply  feel  the 
sting  of  conscience  is  inconsistent  with  his  brutality. 

On  page  15,  the  interval  elapsing  between  the  mur 
der  and  Rudge's  return,  is  variously  stated  at  twenty- 
two  and  twenty-four  years.  It  may  be  asked  why  the 
inmates  of  The  Warren  failed  to  hear  the  alarm-bell 
which  was  heard  by  Solomon  Daisy. 

The  idea  of  persecution  by  being  tracked,  as  by 
bloodhounds,  from  one  spot  of  quietude  to  another,  is 
a  favourite  one  with  Mr.  Dickens.  Its  effect  cannot 
be  denied. 

The  stain  upon  Barnaby's  wrist,  caused  by  fright 
in  the  mother  at  so  late  a  period  of  gestation  as  one 
day  before  mature  parturition,  is  shockingly  at  war 
with  all  medical  experience. 

When  Rudge,  escaped  from  prison,  unshackled, 
with  money  at  command,  is  in  agony  at  his  wife's  re 
fusal  to  perjure  herself  for  his  salvation — is  it  not 
queer  that  he  should  demand  any  other  salvation  than 
lay  in  his  heels  ? 

Some  of  the  conclusions  of  chapters — see  pages  40 
and  100 — seem  to  have  been  written  for  the  mere  pur 
pose  of  illustrating  tail-pieces. 

The  leading  idiosyncrasy  of  Mr.  Dickens'  remark 
able  humour,  is  to  be  found  in  his  translating  the  lan 
guage  of  gesture,  or  action,  or  tone.  For  example — 

"The  cronies  nodded  to  each  other,  and  Mr.  Parkes 
remarked  in  an  undertone,  shaking  his  head  mean 
while,  as  who  should  say  'let  no  man  contradict  me, 
for  I  'wont  believe  him'  that  Willet  was  in  amazing 
force  to-night." 


138  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

The  riots  form  a  series  of  vivid  pictures  never  sur 
passed.  At  page  17,  the  road  between  London  and 
the  Maypole  is  described  as  a  horribly  rough  and  dan 
gerous,  and  at  page  97,  as  an  uncommonly  smooth  and 
convenient  one.  At  page  116,  how  comes  Chester  in 
possession  of  the  key  of  Mrs.  Rudge's  vacated  house  ? 

Mr.  Dickens'  English  is  usually  pure.  His  most 
remarkable  error  is  that  of  employing  the  adverb  "di 
rectly"  in  the  sense  of  "as  soon  as/'  For  example — 
''Directly  he  arrived,  Rudge  said/'  etc.  Bulwer  is  uni 
formly  guilty  of  the  same  blunder. 

It  is  observable  that  so  original  a  stylist  as  our  au 
thor  should  occasionally  lapse  into  a  gross  imitation  of 
what,  itself,  is  a  gross  imitation.  We  mean  the  man 
ner  of  Lamb — a  manner  based  in  the  Latin  construc 
tion.  For  example — 

"In  summer  time  its  pumps  suggest  to  thirsty  idlers 
springs  cooler  and  more  sparkling  and  deeper  than 
other  wells;  and  as  they  trace  the  spillings  of  full 
pitchers  on  the  heated  ground,  they  snuff  the  fresh 
ness,  and,  sighing,  cast  sad  looks  towards  the  Thames, 
and  think  of  baths  and  boats,  and  saunter  on 
despondent." 

There  are  many  coincidences  wrought  into  the  nar 
rative — those,  for  example,  which  relate  to  the  nine 
teenth  of  March ;  the  dream  of  Barnaby,  respecting  his 
father,  at  the  very  period  when  his  father  is  actually  in 
the  house ;  and  the  dream  of  Haredale  previous  to  his 
final  meeting  with  Chester.  These  things  are  meant 
to  insinuate  a  fatality  which,  very  properly,  is  not  ex 
pressed  in  plain  terms — but  it  is  questionable  whether 


THE  CRITIC  139 

the  story  derives  more  in  ideality  from  their  introduc 
tion,  than  it  might  have  gained  of  verisimilitude  from 
their  omission. 

The  dramatis  persona  sustain  the  high  fame  of 
Mr.  Dickens  as  a  delineator  of  character.  Miggs,  the 
disconsolate  handmaiden  of  Varden;  Tappertit,  his 
chivalrous  apprentice;  Mrs.  Varden,  herself;  and 
Dennis,  a  hangman — may  be  regarded  as  original  cari 
catures,  of  the  highest  merit  as  such.  Their  traits  are 
founded  in  acute  observation  of  nature,  but  are  exag 
gerated  to  the  utmost  admissible  extent.  Miss  Hare- 
dale  and  Edward  Chester  are  commonplaces — no  ef 
fort  has  been  made  in  their  behalf.  Joe  Willet  is  a 
naturally  drawn  country  youth.  Stagg  is  a  mere 
make-weight.  Gashford  and  Gordon  are  truthfully 
copied.  Dolly  Varden  is  truth  itself.  Haredale, 
Rudge  and  Mrs.  Rudge,  are  impressive  only  through 
the  circumstances  which  surround  them.  Sir  John 
Chester,  is,  of  course,  not  original,  but  is  a  vast  im 
provement  upon  all  his  predecessors — his  heartlessness 
is  rendered  somewhat  too  amusing,  and  his  end  too 
much  that  of  a  man  of  honour.  Hugh  is  a  noble  con 
ception.  His  fierce  exultation  in  his  animal  powers ; 
his  subserviency  to  the  smooth  Chester;  his  mirthful 
contempt  and  patronage  of  Tappertit,  and  his  brutal 
yet  firm  courage  in  the  hour  of  death — form  a  picture 
to  be  set  in  diamonds.  Old  Willet  is  not  surpassed  by 
any  character  even  among  those  of  Dickens.  He  is 
nature  itself — yet  a  step  farther  would  have  placed  him 
in  the  class  of  caricatures.  His  combined  conceit  and' 
obtusity  are  indescribably  droll,  and  his  peculiar  mis 
directed  energy  when  aroused,  is  one  of  the  most  ex 
quisite  touches  in  all  humorous  painting.  We  shall 


140  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

never  forget  how  heartily  we  laughed  at  his  shaking 
Solomon  Daisy  and  threatening  to  put  him  behind  the 
fire,  because  the  unfortunate  little  man  was  too  much 
frightened  to  articulate.  Varden  is  one  of  those  free, 
jovial,  honest  fellows  at  charity  with  all  mankind, 
whom  our  author  is  so  fond  of  depicting.  And  lastly, 
Barnaby,  the  hero  of  the  tale — in  him  we  have  been 
somewhat  disappointed.  We  have  already  said  that 
his  delight  in  the  atrocities  of  the  Rebellion  is  at  vari 
ance  with  his  horror  of  blood.  But  this  horror  of 
blood  is  inconsequential;  and  of  this  we  complain. 
Strongly  insisted  upon  in  the  beginning  of  the  narra 
tive,  it  produces  no  adequate  result.  And  here  how 
fine  an  opportunity  has  Mr.  Dickens  missed!  The 
conviction  of  the  assassin,  after  the  lapse  of  twenty- 
two  years,  might  easily  have  been  brought  about 
through  his  son's  mysterious  awe  of  blood — an  awe 
created  in  the  unborn  by  the  assassination  itself — and 
this  would  have  been  one  of  the  finest  possible  embod 
iments  of  the  idea  which  we  are  accustomed  to  attach 
to  "poetical  justice/'  The  raven,  too,  intensely  amus 
ing  as  it  is,  might  have  been  made,  more  than  we  now 
see  it,  a  portion  of  the  conception  of  the  fantastic  Bar 
naby.  Its  croakings  might  have  been  prophetically 
heard  in  the  course  of  the  drama.  Its  character  might 
have  performed,  in  regard  to  that  of  the  idiot,  much 
the  same  part  as  does,  in  music,  the  accompaniment  in 
respect  to  the  air.  Each  might  have  been  distinct. 
Each  might  have  differed  remarkably  from  the  other. 
Yet  between  them  there  might  have  been  wrought  an 
analogical  resemblance,  and  although  each  might  have 
existed  apart,  they  might  have  formed  together  a 
whole  which  would  have  been  imperfect  in  the  absence 
of  either. 


THE  CRITIC  141 

From  what  we  have  here  said — and,  perhaps,  said 
without  due  deliberation — (for  alas!  the  hurried  du 
ties  of  the  journalist  preclude  it)  there  will  not  be 
wanting  those  who  will  accuse  us  of  a  mad  design  to 
detract  from  the  pure  fame  of  the  novelist.  But  to 
such  we  merely  say  in  the  language  of  heraldry  "ye 
should  wear  a  plain  point  sanguine  in  your  arms."  If 
this  be  understood,  well ;  if  not,  well  again.  There 
lives  no  man  feeling  a  deeper  reverence  for  genius 
than  ourself.  If  we  have  not  dwelt  so  especially  upon 
the  high  merits  as  upon  the  trivial  defects  of  "Barnaby 
Rudge"  we  have  already  given  our  reasons  for  the 
omission,  and  these  reasons  will  be  sufficiently  under 
stood  by  all  whom  we  care  to  understand  them.  The 
work  before  us  is  not,  we  think,  equal  to  the  tale  which 
immediately  preceded  it ;  but  there  are  few — very  few 
others  to  which  we  consider  it  inferior.  Our  chief  ob 
jection  has  not,  perhaps,  been  so  distinctly  stated  as  we 
could  wish.  That  this  fiction,  or  indeed  that  any  fic 
tion  written  by  Mr.  Dickens,  should  be  based  in  the  ex 
citement  and  maintenance  of  curiosity  we  look  upon  as 
a  misconception,  on  the  part  of  the  writer,  of  his  own 
very  great  yet  very  peculiar  powers.  He  has  done 
this  thing  well,  to  be  sure — he  would  do  any  thing  well 
in  comparison  with  the  herd  of  his  contemporaries — 
but  he  has  not  done  it  so  thoroughly  well  as  his  high 
and  just  reputation  would  demand.  We  think  that 
the  whole  book  has  been  an  effort  to  him — solely 
through  the  nature  of  its  design.  He  has  been  smit 
ten  with  an  untimely  desire  for  a  novel  path.  The 
idiosyncrasy  of  his  intellect  would  lead  him,  naturally, 
into  the  most  fluent  and  simple  style  of  narration.  In 
tales  of  ordinary  sequence  he  may  and  will  long  reign 


142  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

triumphant.  He  has  a  talent  for  all  things,  but  no 
positive  genius  for  adaptation,  and  still  less  for  that 
metaphysical  art  in  which  the  souls  of  all  mysteries  lie. 
"Caleb  Williams"  is  a  far  less  noble  work  than  "The 
Old  Curiosity  Shop" ;  but  Mr.  Dickens  could  no  more 
have  constructed  the  one  than  Mr.  Godwin  could  have 
dreamed  of  the  other. 

LONGFELLOW'S  BALLADS 

[Ballads  and  Other  Poems,  by  Henry  Wadsworth 
Longfellow,  reviewed  in  Graham's  Magazine,  April, 
1842.  In  the  first  part  of  the  review  Poe  states  his 
objections  to  Longfellow's  themes :  they  are  concerned 
too  much  with  didacticism  and  too  little  with  pure 
beauty.  In  the  following  extract  Poe  applies  his 
thesis  to  individual  poems.  We  omit  the  strictures  on 
Longfellow's  hexameters.] 

We  have  thus  shown  our  ground  of  objection  to 
the  general  themes  of  Professor  Longfellow.  In  com 
mon  with  all  who  claim  the  sacred  title  of  poet,  he 
should  limit  his  endeavors  to  the  creation  of  novel 
moods  of  beauty,  in  form,  in  color,  in  sound,  in  senti 
ment;  for  over  all  this  wide  range  has  the  poetry  of 
words  dominion.  To  what  the  world  terms  prose  may 
be  safely  and  properly  left  all  else.  The  artist  who 
doubts  of  his  thesis,  may  always  resolve  his  doubt  by 
the  single  question — '"might  not  this  matter  be  as  well 
or  better  handled  in  prose?"  If  it  may,  then  is  it  no 
subject  for  the  Muse.  In  the  general  acceptation  of 
the  term  Beauty  we  are  content  to  rest ;  being  careful 
only  to  suggest  that,  in  our  peculiar  views,  it  must  be 
understood  as  inclusive  of  the  sublime. 


THE  CRITIC  143 

Of  the  pieces  which  constitute  the  present  volume, 
there  are  not  more  than  one  or  two  thoroughly  ful 
filling  the  idea  above  proposed ;  although  the  volume 
as  a  whole  is  by  no  means  so  chargeable  with  didacti 
cism  as  Mr.  Longfellow's  previous  book.  We  would 
mention  as  poems  nearly  true,  "The  Village  Black 
smith,"  'The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,"  and  especially 
'The  Skeleton  in  Armor."  In  the  first-mentioned 
we  have  the  beauty  of  simple-mindedness  as  a  gen 
uine  thesis ;  and  this  thesis  is  inimitably  handled  until 
the  concluding  stanza,  where  the  spirit  of  legitimate 
poesy  is  aggrieved  in  the  pointed  antithetical  deduc 
tion  of  a  moral  from  what  has  gone  before.  In  'The 
Wreck  of  the  Hesperus"  we  have  the  beauty  of  child 
like  confidence  and  innocence,  with  that  of  the  father's 
stern  courage  and  affection.  But,  with  slight  excep 
tion,  those  particulars  of  the  storm  here  detailed  are 
not  poetic  subjects.  Their  thrilling  horror  belongs  to 
prose,  in  which  it  could  be  far  more  effectively  dis 
cussed,  as  Professor  Longfellow  may  assure  himself 
at  any  moment  by  experiment.  There  are  points  of  a 
tempest  which  afford  the  loftiest  and  truest  poetical 
themes — points  in  which  pure  beauty  is  found,  or,  bet 
ter  still,  beauty  heightened  into  the  sublime,  by  terror. 
But  when  we  read,  among  other  similar  things,  that 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 
The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes, 

we  feel,  if  not  positive  disgust,  at  least  a  chilling  sense 
of  the  inappropriate.  In  the  "Skeleton  in  Armor"  we 
find  a  pure  and  perfect  thesis  artistically  treated.  We 
find  the  beauty  of  bold  courage  and  self-confidence, 
of  love  and  maiden  devotion,  of  reckless  adventure, 


144  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

and  finally  of  life-contemning  grief.  Combined  with 
all  this  we  have  numerous  points  of  beauty  apparently 
insulated,  but  all  aiding  the  main  effect  or  impres 
sion.  The  heart  is  stirred,  and  the  mind  does  not  la 
ment  its  mal-instruction.  The  metre  is  simple,  sonor 
ous,  well-balanced,  and  fully  adapted  to  the  subject. 
Upon  the  whole,  there  are  few  truer  poems  than  this. 
It  has  but  one  defect — an  important  one.  The  prose 
remarks  prefacing  the  narrative  are  really  necessary. 
But  every  work  of  art  should  contain  within  itself  all 
that  is  requisite  for  its  own  comprehension.  And  this 
remark  is  especially  true  of  the  ballad.  In  poems  of 
magnitude  the  mind  of  the  reader  is  not,  at  all  times, 
enabled  to  include,  in  one  comprehensive  survey,  the 
proportions  and  proper  adjustment  of  the  whole.  He 
is  pleased,  if  at  all,  with  particular  passages ;  and  the 
sum  of  his  pleasure  is  compounded  of  the  sums  of  the 
pleasurable  sentiments  inspired  by  these  individual 
passages  in  the  progress  of  perusal.  But,  in  pieces 
of  less  extent,  the  pleasure  is  unique,  in  the  proper 
acceptation  of  this  term — the  understanding  is  em 
ployed,  without  difficulty,  in  the  contemplation  of  the 
picture  as  a  whole ;  and  thus  its  effect  will  depend,  in 
great  measure,  upon  the  perfection  of  its  finish,  upon 
the  nice  adaptation  of  its  constituent  parts,  and 
especially,  upon  what  is  rightly  termed  by  Schlegel 
the  unity  or  totality  of  interest.  But  the  practice  of 
prefixing  explanatory  passages  is  utterly  at  variance 
with  such  unity.  By  the  prefix,  we  are  either  put  in 
possession  of  the  subject  of  the  poem;  or  some  hint, 
historic  fact,  or  suggestion,  is  thereby  afforded,  not 
included  in  the  body  of  the  piece,  which,  without  the 
hint,  is  incomprehensible.  In  the  latter  case,  while 


THE  CRITIC  145 

perusing  the  poem,  the  reader  must  revert,  in  mind  at 
least,  to  the  prefix,  for  the  necessary  explanation.  In 
the  former,  the  poem  being  a  mere  paraphrase  of  the 
prefix,  the  interest  is  divided  between  the  prefix  and 
the  paraphrase.  In  either  instance  the  totality  of 
effect  is  destroyed. 

Of  the  other  original  poems  in  the  volume  before 
us,  there  is  none  in  which  the  aim  of  instruction,  or 
truth,  has  not  been  too  obviously  substituted  for  the 
legitimate  aim,  beauty.  In  our  last  number,  we  took 
occasion  to  say  that  a  didactic  moral  might  be  happily 
made  the  under-current  of  a  poetical  theme,  and,  in 
''Burton's  Magazine,"  some  two  years  since,  we  treated 
this  point  at  length,  in  a  review  of  Moore's 
"Alciphron"  but  the  moral  thus  conveyed  is  invariably 
an  ill  effect  when  obtruding  beyond  the  upper  cur 
rent  of  the  thesis  itself.  Perhaps  the  worst  specimen 
of  this  obtrusion  is  given  us  by  our  poet  in  "Blind 
Bartimeus"  and  the  "Goblet  of  Life,"  where,  it  will  be 
observed  that  the  sole  interest  of  the  upper  current  of 
meaning  depends  upon  its  relation  or  reference  to  the 
under.  What  we  read  upon  the  surface  would  be  vox 
et  prceterea  nihil  in  default  of  the  moral  beneath.  The 
Greek  finales  of  "Blind  Bartimeus"  are  an  affectation 
altogether  inexcusable.  What  the  small,  second-hand, 
Gibbon-ish  pedantry  of  Byron  introduced,  is  unworthy 
the  imitation  of  Longfellow. 

Of  the  translations  we  scarcely  think  it  necessary 
to  speak  at  all.  We  regret  that  our  poet  will  persist 
in  busying  himself  about  such  matters.  His  time 
might  be  better  employed  in  original  conception.  Most 
of  these  versions  are  marked  with  the  error  upon 
which  we  have  commented.  This  error  is  in  fact,  e3- 


146  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

scntially  Germanic.  "The  Luck  of  Edenhall,"  how 
ever,  is  a  truly  beautiful  poem ;  and  we  say  this  with 
all  that  deference  which  the  opinion  of  the  "Democratic 
Review"  demands.  This  composition  appears  to  us 
one  of  the  very  finest.  It  has  all  the  free,  hearty, 
obvious  movement  of  the  true  ballad-legend.  The 
greatest  force  of  language  is  combined  in  it  with  the 
richest  imagination,  acting  in  its  most  legitimate 
province.  L^pon  the  whole,  we  prefer  it  even  to  the 
"Sword-Song"  of  Korner.  The  pointed  moral  with 
which  it  terminates  is  so  exceedingly  natural — so  per 
fectly  fluent  from  the  incidents — that  we  have  hardly 
heart  to  pronounce  it  in  ill  taste.  We  may  observe  of 
this  ballad,  in  conclusion,  that  its  subject  is  more 
physical  than  is  usual  in  Germany.  Its  images  are 
rich  rather  in  physical  than  in  moral  beauty.  And 
this  tendency,  in  Song,  is  the  true  one.  It  is  chiefly, 
if  we  are  not  mistaken — it  is  chiefly  amid  forms  of 
physical  loveliness  (we  use  the  word  forms  in  its  wid 
est  sense  as  embracing  modifications  of  sound  and 
color)  that  the  soul  seeks  the  realization  of  its  dreams 
of  BEAUTY.  It  is  to  her  demand  in  this  sense 
especially,  that  the  poet,  who  is  wise,  will  most  fre 
quently  and  most  earnestly  respond 

As  we  have  already  alluded,  in  one  or  two  re 
gards,  to  a  notice  of  these  poems  which  appeared  in 
the  "Democratic  Review,"  we  may  as  well  here  pro 
ceed  with  some  few  further  comments  upon  the  article 
in  question — with  whose  general  tenor  we  are  happy 
to  agree. 

The  Review  speaks  of  "Maidenhood"  as  a  poem, 
"not  to  be  understood  but  at  the  expense  of  more 
time  and  trouble  than  a  song  can  justly  claim."  We 


THE  CRITIC  147 

are  scarcely  less  surprised  at  this  opinion  from  Mr. 
Langtree  than  we  were  at  the  condemnation  of  "The 
Luck  of  Edenhall." 

"Maidenhood"  is  faulty,  it  appears  to  us,  only  on 
the  score  of  its  theme,  which  is  somewhat  didactic.  Its 
meaning  seems  simplicity  itself.  A  maiden  on  the  verge 
of  womanhood,  hesitating  to  enjoy  life  (for  which 
she  has  a  strong  appetite)  through  a  false  idea  of 
duty,  is  bidden  to  fear  nothing,  having  purity  of  heart 
as  her  lion  of  Una. 

What  Mr.  Langtree  styles  "an  unfortunate  pecu 
liarity"  in  Mr.  Longfellow,  resulting  from  "adherence 
to  a  false  system"  has  really  been  always  regarded 
by  us  as  one  of  his  idiosyncratic  merits.  "In  each 
poem,"  says  the  critic,  "he  has  but  one  idea  which,  in 
the  progress  of  his  song,  is  gradually  unfolded,  and  at 
last  reaches  its  full  development  in  the  concluding 
lines ;  this  singleness  of  thought  might  lead  a  harsh 
critic  to  suspect  intellectual  barrenness."  It  leads  us, 
individually,  only  to  a  full  sense  of  the  artistical  power 
and  knowledge  of  the  poet.  We  confess  that  now, 
for  the  first  time,  we  hear  unity  of  conception  ob 
jected  to  as  a  defect.  But  Mr.  Langtree  seems  to  have 
fallen  into  the  singular  error  of  supposing  the  poet  to 
have  absolutely  but  one  idea  in  each  of  his  ballads. 
Yet  how  "one  idea"  can  be  "gradually  unfolded"  with 
out  other  ideas,  is,  to  us,  a  mystery  of  mysteries.  Mr. 
Longfellow,  very  properly,  has  but  one  leading  idea 
which  forms  the  basis  of  his  poem ;  but  to  the  aid  and 
development  of  this  one  there  are  innumerable  others, 
of  which  the  rare  excellence  is,  that  all  are  in  keeping, 
that  none  could  be  well  omitted,  that  each  tends  to  the 


148  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

one  general  effect.  It  is  unnecessary  to  say  another 
word  upon  this  topic. 

In  speaking  of  ''Excelsior,"  Mr.  Langtree  (are  we 
wrong  in  attributing  the  notice  to  his  very  forcible 
pen  ?)  seems  to  labor  under  some  similar  misconcep 
tion.  "It  carries  along  with  it,"  says  he,  "a  false 
moral  which  greatly  diminishes  its  merit  in  our  eyes. 
The  great  merit  of  a  picture,  whether  made  with  the 
pencil  or  pen,  is  its  truth ;  and  this  merit  does  not  be 
long  to  Mr.  Longfellow's  sketch.  Men  of  genius  may 
and  probably  do,  meet  with  greater  difficulties  in  their 
struggles  with  the  world  than  their  fellow-men  who 
are  less  highly  gifted ;  but  their  power  of  overcoming 
obstacles  is  proportionably  greater,  and  the  result  of 
their  laborious  suffering  is  not  death  but  immortality." 

That  the  chief  merit  of  a  picture  is  its  truih,  is  an 
assertion  deplorably  erroneous.  Even  in  Painting, 
which  is,  more  essentially  than  Poetry,  a  mimetic  art, 
the  proposition  cannot  be  sustained.  Truth  is  not 
even  the  aim.  Indeed  it  is  curious  to  observe  how 
very  slight  a  degree  of  truth  is  sufficient  to  satisfy  the 
mind,  which  acquiesces  in  the  absence  of  numerous 
essentials  in  the  thing  depicted.  An  outline  frequently 
stirs  the  spirit  more  pleasantly  than  the  most  elaborate 
picture.  We  need  only  refer  to  the  compositions  of 
Flaxman  and  of  Retzsch.  Here  all  details  are  omitted 
— nothing  can  be  farther  from  truth.  Without  even 
color  the  most  thrilling  effects  are  produced.  In 
statues  we  are  rather  pleased  than  disgusted  with  the 
want  of  the  eyeball  The  hair  of  the  Venus  de  Medici 
u>as  gilded.  Truth  indeed !  The  grapes  of  Zeuxis  as 
well  as  the  curtain  of  Parrhasius  were  received  as  in 
disputable  evidence  of  the  truthful  ability  of  these 


THE  CRITIC  149 

artists — but  they  are  not  even  classed  among  their  pic 
tures.  If  truth  is  the  highest  aim  of  either  Painting 
or  Poesy,  then  Jan  Steen  was  a  greater  artist  than 
Angelo,  and  Crabbe  is  a  more  noble  poet  than  Milton. 
But  we  kave  not  quoted  the  observation  of  Mr. 
Langtree  to  deny  its  philosophy ;  our  design  was  sim 
ply  to  show  that  he  has  misunderstood  the  poet. 
"Excelsior"  has  not  even  a  remote  tendency  to  the 
interpretation  assigned  it  by  the  critic.  It  depicts  the 
earnest  upward  impulse  of  the  soul — an  impulse  not 
to  be  subdued  even  in  Death.  Despising  danger,  re 
sisting  pleasure,  the  youth,  bearing  the  banner  in 
scribed  "Excelsior I"  (higher  still!)  struggles  through 
all  difficulties  to  an  Alpine  summit.  Warned  to  be 
content  with  the  elevation  attained,  his  cry  is  still 
"Excelsior !"  And,  even  in  falling  dead  on  the  highest 
pinnacle,  his  cry  is  still  "Excelsior!"  There  is  yet  an 
immortal  height  to  be  surmounted — an  ascent  in 
Eternity.  The  poet  holds  in  view  the  idea  of  never- 
ending  progress.  That  he  is  misunderstood  is  rather  9*  •.-•>«•  J 
the  misfortune  of  Mr.  Langtree  than  the  fault  of  Mr.  <V 
Longfellow.  There  is  an  old  adage  about  the  diffi-  (  *^*  (  x* 
culty  of  one's  furnishing  an  auditor  both  with  matter  I  JZ*^  /££ 
to  be  comprehended  and  brains  for  its  comprehension.  •'<£tae^tt^^ 

THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE   SHORT  STORY  *"*     (^6*^ 

*  S^)4> 

[Twice-Told  Tales,  by  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  re-  <^^> 
viewed  in  Graham's  Magazine,  May,  1842.    Judged  by 

its  effect,  the  paragraph  beginning,  "A  skilful  literary  ^ 

artist  has   constructed   a  tale,"   is  probably  the   most  ^ 

significant  in  the  annals  of  American  literary  criticism.  c 
It  heralded  the  birth  of  the  American  short  story  as 

distinct  literary  type.]  y0-^^-^-^^ 

"f°~ 


ISO  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

But  it  is  of  his  tales  that  we  desire  principally  to 
speak.  The  tale  proper,  in  our  opinion,  affords  un 
questionably  the  fairest  field  for  the  exercise  of  the 
loftiest  talent,  which  can  be  afforded  by  the  wide 
domains  of  mere  prose.  Were  we  bidden  to  say  how 
the  highest  genius  could  be  most  advantageously  em 
ployed  for  the  best  display  of  its  own  powers,  we 
should  answer,  without  hesitation — in  the  composi 
tion  of  a  rhymed  poem,  not  to  exceed  in  length  what 
might  be  perused  in  an  hour.  Within  this  limit  alone 
can  the  highest  order  of  true  poetry  exist.  We  need 
only  here  say,  upon  this  topic,  that,  in  almost  all 
classes  of  composition,  the  unity  of  effect  or  impres 
sion  is  a  point  of  the  greatest  importance.  It  is 
clear,  moreover,  that  this  unity  cannot  be  thoroughly 
preserved  in  productions  whose  perusal  cannot  be 
completed  at  one  sitting.  We  may  continue  the  read 
ing  of  a  prose  composition,  from  the  very  nature  of 
prose  itself,  much  longer  than  we  can  persevere,  to 
any  good  purpose,  in  the  perusal  of  a  poem.  This  lat 
ter,  if  truly  fulfilling  the  demands  of  the  poetic  senti 
ment,  induces  an  exaltation  of  the  soul  which  cannot 
be  long  sustained.  All  high  excitements  are  neces 
sarily  transient.  Thus  a  long  poem  is  a  paradox. 
And,  without  unity  of  impression,  the  deepest  effects 
cannot  be  brought  about.  Epics  were  the  offspring 
of  an  imperfect  sense  of  Art,  and  their  reign  is  no 
more.  A  poem  too  brief  may  produce  a  vivid,  but 
never  an  intense  or  enduring  impression.  Without  a 
certain  continuity  of  effort — without  a  certain  dura 
tion  or  repetition  of  purpose — the  soul  is  never  deeply 
moved.  There  must  be  the  dropping  of  the  water  upon 
the  rock.  De  Beranger  has  wrought  brilliant  things 


THE  CRITIC  151 

— pungent  and  spirit-stirring — but,  like  all  immassive 
bodies,  they  lack  momentum,  and  thus  fail  to  satisfy 
the  Poetic  Sentiment.  They  sparkle  and  excite,  but, 
from  want  of  continuity,  fail  deeply  to  impress.  Ex 
treme  brevity  will  degenerate  into  epigrarnmatism ;  but 
the  sin  of  extreme  length  is  even  more  unpardonable. 
In  media  tutissimus  ibis. 

Were  we  called  upon,  however,  to  designate  that 
class  of  composition  which,  next  to  such  a  poem  as 
we  have  suggested,  should  best  fulfil  the  demands  of 
high  genius — should  offer  it  the  most  advantageous 
field  of  exertion — we  should  unhesitatingly  speak  of 
the  prose  tale,  as  Mr.  Hawthorne  has  here  exemplified 
it.  We  allude  to  the  short  prose  narrative,  requiring 
from  a  half-hour  to  one  or  two  hours  in  its  perusal. 
The  ordinary  novel  is  objectionable,  from  its  length, 
for  reasons  already  stated  in  substance.  As  it  cannot 
be  read  at  one  sitting,  it  deprives  itself,  of  course,  of 
the  immense  force  derivable  from  totality.  Worldly 
interests  intervening  during  the  pauses  of  perusal, 
modify,  annul,  or  counteract,  in  a  greater  or  less  de 
gree,  the  impressions  of  the  book.  But  simple  cessa 
tion  in  reading,  would,  of  itself,  be  sufficient  to  destroy 
the  true  unity.  In  the  brief  tale,  however,  the  author 
is  enabled  to  carry  out  the  fulness  of  his  intention, 
be  it  what  it  may.  During  the  hour  of  perusal  the 
soul  of  the  reader  is  at  the  writer's  control.  There 
are  no  external  or  extrinsic  influences — resulting  from 
weariness  or  interruption. 

A  skilful  literary  artist  has  constructed  a  tale.  If 
wise,  he  has  not  fashioned  his  thoughts  to  accommo 
date  his  incidents ;  but  having  conceived,  with  deliber 
ate  care,  a  certain  unique  or  single  effect  to  be  wrought 


152  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

cut,  He  then  invents  such  incidents — he  then  combines 
such  events  as  may  best  aid  him  in  establishing  this 
preconceived  effect.  If  his  very  initial  sentence  tend 
not  to  the  out-bringing  of  this  effect,  then  he  has 
failed  in  his  first  step.  In  the  whole  composition  there 
should  be  no  word  written,  of  which  the  tendency,  di 
rect  or  indirect,  is  not  to  the  one  pre-established 
design.  And  by  such  means,  with  such  care  and  skill, 
a  picture  is  at  length  painted  which  leaves  in  the  mind 
of  him  who  contemplates  it  with  a  kindred  art,  a  sense 
of  the  fullest  satisfaction.  The  idea  of  the  tale  has 
been  presented  unblemished,  because  undisturbed ;  and 
this  is  an  end  unattainable  by  the  novel.  Undue 
brevity  is  just  as  exceptionable  here  as  in  the  poem ; 
but  undue  length  is  yet  more  to  be  avoided. 

We  have  said  that  the  tale  has  a  point  of  superiority 
even  over  the  poem.  In  fact,  while  the  rhythm  of  this 
latter  is  an  essential  aid  in  the  development  of  the 
poem's  highest  idea — the  idea  of  the  Beautiful — the 
artificialities  of  this  rhythm  are  an  inseparable  bar 
to  the  development  of  all  points  of  thought  or  expres 
sion  which  have  their  basis  in  Truth.  But  Truth  is 
often,  and  in  very  great  degree,  the  aim  of  the  tale. 
Some  of  the  finest  tales  are  tales  of  ratiocination. 
Thus  the  field  of  this  species  of  composition,  if  not  in 
so  elevated  a  region  on  the  mountain  of  Mind,  is  a 
table-land  of  far  vaster  extent  than  the  domain  of  the 
mere  poem.  Its  products  are  never  so  rich,  but  in 
finitely  more  numerous,  and  more  appreciable  by  the 
mass  of  mankind.  The  writer  of  the  prose  tale,  in 
short,  may  bring  to  his  theme  a  vast  variety  of  modes 
or  inflections  of  thought  and  expression — (the  ra- 
tiocinative,  for  example,  the  sarcastic  or  the  humorous} 


THE  CRITIC  153 

which  are  not  only  antagonistical  to  the  nature  of  the 
poem,  but  absolutely  forbidden  by  one  of  its  most 
peculiar  and  indispensable  adjuncts;  we  allude,  of 
course,  to  rhythm.  It  may  be  added,  here,  par 
par  enthuse,  that  the  author  who  aims  at  the  purely 
beautiful  in  a  prose  tale  is  laboring-  at  great  disad 
vantage.  For  Beauty  can  be  better  treated  in  the 
poem.  Not  so  with  terror,  or  passion,  or  horror,  or  a 
multitude  of  such  other  points.  And  here  it  will  be 
seen  how  full  of  prejudice  are  the  usual  animadver 
sions  against  those  tales  of  effect,  many  fine  examples 
of  which  were  found  in  the  earlier  numbers  of  Black- 
wood.  The  impressions  produced  were  wrought  in  a 
legitimate  sphere  of  action,  and  constituted  a  legiti 
mate  although  sometimes  an  exaggerated  interest. 
They  were  relished  by  every  man  of  genius :  although 
there  were  found  many  men  of  genius  who  condemned 
them  without  just  ground.  The  true  critic  will  but 
demand  that  the  design  intended  be  accomplished, 
to  the  fullest  extent,  by  the  means  most  advantageously 
applicable. 

We  have  very  few  American  tales  of  real  merit — 
we  may  say,  indeed,  none,  with  the  exception  of  "The 
Tales  of  a  Traveller"  of  Washington  Irving,  and 
these  "Twice-Told  Tales"  of  Mr.  Hawthorne.  Some 
of  the  pieces  of  Mr.  John  Neal  abound  in  vigor  and 
originality ;  but  in  general,  his  compositions  of  this 
class  are  excessively  diffuse,  extravagant,  and  indica 
tive  of  an  imperfect  sentiment  of  Art.  Articles  at 
random  are,  now  and  then,  met  with  in  our  periodicals 
which  might  be  advantageously  compared  with  the 
best  effusions  of  the  British  Magazines ;  but,  upon  the 
whole,  we  are  far  behind  our  progenitors  in  this  de 
partment  of  literature. 


154  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Of  Mr.  Hawthorne's  Tales  we  would  say,  emphati 
cally,  that  they  belong  to  the  highest  region  of  Art — 
an  Art  subservient  to  genius  of  a  very  lofty  order. 
We  had  supposed,  with  good  reason  for  so  supposing, 
that  he  had  been  thrust  into  his  present  position  by 
one  of  the  impudent  cliques  which  beset  our  literature, 
and  whose  pretensions  it  is  our  full  purpose  to  ex 
pose  at  the  earliest  opportunity ;  but  we  have  been  most 
agreeably  mistaken.  We  know  of  few  compositions 
which  the  critic  can  more  honestly  commend  than  these 
"Twice-Told  Tales."  As  Americans,  we  feel  proud 
of  the  book. 

Mr.  Hawthorne's  distinctive  trait  is  invention, 
creation,  imagination,  originality — a  trait  which,  in 
the  literature  of  fiction,  is  positively  worth  all  the  rest. 
But  the  nature  of  originality,  so  far  as  regards  its 
manifestation  in  letters,  is  but  imperfectly  understood. 
The  inventive  or  original  mind  as  frequently  displays 
itself  in  novelty  of  tone  as  in  novelty  of  manner.  Mr. 
Hawthorne  is  original  at  all  points. 

It  would  be  a  matter  of  some  difficulty  to  desig 
nate  the  best  of  these  tales ;  we  repeat  that,  without 
exception,  they  are  beautiful.  "Wakefield"  is  remark 
able  for  the  skill  with  which  an  old  idea — a  well- 
known  incident — is  worked  up  or  discussed.  A  man  of 
whims  conceives  the  purpose  of  quitting  his  wife  and 
residing  incognito,  for  twenty  years,  in  her  immediate 
neighborhood.  Something  of  this  kind  actually  hap 
pened  in  London.  The  force  of  Mr.  Hawthorne's  tale 
lies  in  the  analysis  of  the  motives  which  must  or 
might  have  impelled  the  husband  to  such  folly,  in  the 
first  instance,  with  the  possible  causes  of  his  persever- 


THE  CRITIC  155 

ance.  Upon  this  thesis  a  sketch  of  singular  power  has 
been  constructed. 

"The  Wedding  Knell"  is  full  of  the  boldest  imagin 
ation — an  imagination  fully  controlled  by  taste.  The 
most  captious  critic  could  find  no  flaw  in  this 
production. 

"The  Minister's  Black  Veil'  is  a  masterly  composi 
tion  of  which  the  sole  defect  is  that  to  the  rabble  its 
exquisite  skill  will  be  caviare.  The  obvious  meaning  of 
this  article  will  be  found  to  smother  its  insinuated  one. 
The  moral  put  into  the  mouth  of  the  dying  minister 
will  be  supposed  to  convey  the  true  import  of  the  nar 
rative  ;  and  that  a  crime  of  dark  dye,  (having  refer 
ence  to  the  "young  lady")  has  been  committed,  is  a 
point  which  only  minds  congenial  with  that  of  the 
author  will  perceive. 

"Mr.  Higginbotham's  Catastrophe"  is  vividly 
original  and  managed  most  dexterously. 

"Dr.  Heidegger's  Experiment"  is  exceedingly  well 
imagined,  and  executed  with  surpassing  ability.  The 
artist  breathes  in  every  line  of  it. 

"The  White  Old  Maid"  is  objectionable,  even  more 
than  the  "Minister's  Black  Veil,"  on  the  score  of  its 
mysticism.  Even  with  the  thoughtful  and  analytic, 
there  will  be  much  trouble  in  penetrating  its  entire 
import. 

"The  Hollow  of  the  Three  Hills"  we  would  quote 
in  full,  had  we  space ; — not  as  evincing  higher  talent 
than  any  of  the  other  pieces,  but  as  affording  an  ex 
cellent  example  of  the  author's  peculiar  ability.  The 
subject  is  commonplace.  A  witch  subjects  the  Distant 
and  the  Past  to  the  view  of  a  mourner.  It  has  been 
the  fashion  to  describe,  in  such  cases,  a  mirror  in 


156  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

which  the  images  of  the  absent  appear;  or  a  cloud  of 
smoke  is  made  to  arise,  and  thence  the  figures  are 
gradually  unfolded.  Mr.  Hawthorne  has  wonderfully 
heightened  his  effect  by  making  the  ear,  in  place  of 
the  eye,  the  medium  by  which  the  fantasy  is  conveyed. 
The  head  of  the  mourner  is  enveloped  in  the  cloak  of 
the  witch,  and  within  its  magic  folds  there  arise 
sounds  which  have  an  all-sufficient  intelligence. 
Throughout  this  article  also,  the  artist  is  conspicuous 
— not  more  in  positive  than  in  negative  merits.  Not 
only  is  all  done  that  should  be  done,  but  (what  per 
haps  is  an  end  with  more  difficulty  attained)  there  is 
nothing  else  done  which  should  not  be.  Every  word 
tells,  and  there  is  not  a  word  which  does  not  tell. 

In  "Howe's  Masquerade"  we  observe  something 
which  resembles  a  plagiarism — but  which  may  be  a 
very  flattering  coincidence  of  thought.  We  quote  the 
passage  in  question. 

"With  a  dark  flush  of  wrath  upon  his  brow  they 
saw  the  general  drazv  his  sword  and  advance  to  meet 
the  figure  in  the  cloak  before  the  latter  had  stepped  one 
pace  upon  the  floor. 

'  'Villain,  unmuffle  yourself'  cried  he,  'you  pass 
no  farther!' 

"The  figure,  without  blanching  a  hair's  breadth 
from  the  sword  which  was  pointed  at  his  breast,  made 
a  solemn  pause,  and  lowered  the  cape  of  the  cloak 
from  his  face,  yet  not  sufficiently  for  the  spectators 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  it.  But  Sir  William  Howe  had 
evidently  seen  enough.  The  sternness  of  his  counte 
nance  gave  place  to  a  look  of  wild  amazement,  if  not 


THE  CRITIC  157 

horror,  while  he  recoiled  several  steps  from  the  figure, 
and  let  fall  his  sword  upon  the  floor." 

The  idea  here  is,  that  the  figure  in  the  cloak  is  the 
phantom  or  reduplication  of  Sir  William  Howe ;  but 
in.  an  article  called  "William  Wilson,"  one  of  the 
"Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and  Arabesque,"  we  have  not 
only  the  same  idea,  but  the  same  idea  similarly  pre 
sented  in  several  respects.  We  quote  two  paragraphs, 
which  our  readers  may  compare  with  what  has  been 
already  given.  We  have  italicized,  above,  the  imme 
diate  particulars  of  resemblance. 

"The  brief  moment  in  which  I  averted  my  eyes 
had  been  sufficient  to  produce,  apparently,  a  material 
change  in  the  arrangement  at  the  upper  or  farther  end 
of  the  room.  A  large  mirror,  it  appeared  to  me,  now 
stood  where  none  had  been  perceptible  before :  and  as 
I  stepped  up  to  it  in  extremity  of  terror,  mine  own 
image,  but  with  features  all  pale  and  dabbled  in  blood, 
advanced  with  a  feeble  and  tottering  gait  to  meet  me. 

"Thus  it  appeared  I  say,  but  was  not.  It  was  Wil 
son,  who  then  stood  before  me  in  the  agonies  of  dis 
solution.  Not  a  line  in  all  the  marked  and  singular 
lineaments  of  that  face  which  was  not  even  identically 
mine  own.  His  mask  and  cloak  lay  where  he  had 
thrown  them,  upon  the  floor." 

Here  it  will  be  observed  that,  not  only  are  the  two 
general  conceptions  identical,  but  there  are  various 
points  of  similarity.  In  each  case  the  figure  seen  is 
the  wraith  or  duplication  of  the  beholder.  In  each 
case  the  scene  is  a  masquerade.  In  each  case  the  fig- 


158  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

ure  is  cloaked.  In  each,  there  is  a  quarrel — that  is  to 
say,  angry  words  pass  between  the  parties.  In  each 
the  beholder  is  enraged.  In  each  the  cloak  and  sword 
fall  upon  the  floor.  The  "villain,  unmuffle  yourself," 
cf  Mr.  H.  is  precisely  paralleled  by  a  passage  at  page 
56  of  "William  Wilson." 

In  the  way  of  objection  we  have  scarcely  a  word  to 
say  of  these  tales.  There  is,  perhaps,  a  somewhat  too 
general  or  prevalent  tone — a  tone  of  melancholy  and 
mysticism.  The  subjects  are  insufficiently  varied. 
There  is  not  so  much  of  versatility  evinced  as  we  might 
well  be  warranted  in  expecting  from  the  high  powers 
of  Mr.  Hawthorne.  But  beyond  these  trivial  excep 
tions  we  have  really  none  to  make.  The  style  is  purity 
itself.  Force  abounds.  High  imagination  gleams 
from  every  page.  Mr.  Hawthorne  is  a  man  of  the 
truest  genius.  We  only  regret  that  the  limits  of  our 
Magazine  will  not  permit  us  to  pay  him  that  full 
tribute  of  commendation,  which,  under  other  circum 
stances,  we  should  be  so  eager  to  pay. 

REPETITION  AN  AID  TO  QUAINTNESS 

[The  Drama  of  Exile  and  Other  Poems,  by  Eliza 
beth  Barrett  Barrett,  reviewed  in  The  Broadway 
Journal,  January  4  and  n,  1845.  Poe's  poems  are  so 
instinct  with  rhythmical  repetitions  that  every  refer 
ence  to  the  subject  in  his  critical  reviews  is  an  aid  in 
the  interpretation  of  his  own  art.  In  Ralph  Hoyt's 
Old,  Poe  thought  the  repetition  overdone:  "In  his 
continuous  and  absolutely  uniform  repetition  of  the 
first  line  in  the  last  of  each  stanza,  he  has  by  much  ex 
ceeded  the  legitimate  limits  of  the  quaint,  and  im- 


THE  CRITIC  159 

pinged  upon  the  simply  ludicrous."  But  of  Hood's 
Haunted  House,  Poe  writes :  "The  metre  and  rhythm 
are  not  only,  in  themselves,  admirably  adapted  to  the 
whole  design,  but  with  a  true  artistic  feeling,  the  poet 
has  preserved  a  thorough  monotone  throughout,  and 
renders  its  effect  more  impressive  by  the  repetition 
(gradually  increasing  in  frequency  towards  the  finale] 
of  one  of  the  most  pregnant  and  effective  of  the 
stanzas."] 

We  have  already  said,  however,  that  mere  quaint- 
ness  within  reasonable  limit,  is  not  only  not  to  be  re 
garded  as  affectation,  but  has  its  proper  artistic  uses 
in  aiding  a  fantastic  effect.  We  quote,  from  the  lines 
"To  my  dog  Flush,"  a  passage  in  exemplification : 

Leap!  thy  broad  tail  waves  a  light! 
Leap !  thy  slender  feet  are  bright, 

Canopied  in  fringes ! 
Leap!  those  tasselled  ears  of  thine 
Flicker  strangely,  fair  and  fine, 

Down  their  golden  inches ! 

And  again — from  the  song  of  a  tree-spirit,  in  the 
"Drama  of  Exile:" 

The  Divine  impulsion  cleaves 
In  dim  movements  to  the  leaves 
Dropt  and  lifted,  dropt  and  lifted, 
In  the  sun-light  greenly  sifted, — 
In  the  sun-light  and  the  moon-light 
Greenly  sifted  through  the  trees. 
Ever  wave  the  Eden  trees, 
In  the  night-light  and  the  noon-light, 
With  a  ruffling  of  green  branches, 
Shaded  off  to  resonances, 
Never  stirred  by  rain  or  breeze. 

The  thoughts,  here,  belong  to  the  highest  order  of 
poetry,  but  they  could  not  have  been  wrought  into  ef- 


160  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

fective  expression,  without  the  instrumentality  of  those 
repetitions — those  unusual  phrases — in  a  word,  those 
quaintnesses,  which  it  has  been  too  long  the  fashion  to 
censure,  indiscriminately,  under  the  one  general  head 
of  "affectation."  No  true  poet  will  fail  to  be  enrap 
tured  with  the  two  extracts  above  quoted — but  we  be 
lieve  there  are  few  who  would  not  find  a  difficulty  in 
reconciling  the  psychal  impossibility  of  refraining 
from  admiration,  with  the  too-hastily  attained  mental 
conviction  that,  critically,  there  is  nothing  to  admire. 

SHELLEY  AND  AFTER 

[This  is  the  concluding  part  of  Poe's  review  of  Miss 
Barrett's  Drama  of  Exile.  See  the  preceding  selec 
tion.  It  is  well  to  compare  with  this  bit  of  evolu 
tionary  criticism  of  Shelley  Poe's  only  appraisal  of 
Keats:  "He  is  the  sole  British  poet  who  has  never 
erred  in  his  themes.  Beauty  is  always  his  aim."] 

If  ever  mortal  "wreaked  his  thoughts  upon  expres 
sion"  it  was  Shelley.  If  ever  poet  sang  (as  a  bird 
sings) — impulsively — earnestly — with  utter  abandon 
ment — to  himself  solely — and  for  the  mere  joy  of  his 
own  song — that  poet  was  the  author  of  the  "Sensitive 
Plant."  Of  Art — beyond  that  which  is  the  inalienable 
instinct  of  Genius — he  either  had  little  or  disdained  all. 
TTc  really  disdained  that  Rule  which  is  the  emanation 
from  Law,  because  his  own  soul  was  law  in  itself. 
His  rhapsodies  are  but  the  rough  notes — the  stenog 
raphic  memoranda  of  poems — memoranda  which,  be 
cause  they  were  all-sufficient  for  his  own  intelligence, 
he  cared  not  to  be  at  the  trouble  of  transcribing  in  full 


THE  CRITIC  161 

for  mankind.  In  his  whole  life  he  wrought  not  thor 
oughly  out  a  single  conception.  For  this  reason  it  is 
that  he  is  the  most  fatiguing  of  poets.  Yet  he  wear 
ies  in  having  done  too  little,  rather  than  too  much ; 
what  seems  in  him  the  diffuseness  of  one  idea,  is  the 
conglomerate  concision  of  many; — and  this  concision 
it  is  which  renders  him  obscure.  With  such  a  man,  to 
imitate  was  out  of  the  question;  it  would  have  an 
swered  no  purpose — for  he  spoke  to  his  own  spirit 
alone,  which  would  have  comprehended  no  alien 
tongue; — he  was,  therefore,  profoundly  original.  His 
quaintness  arose  from  intuitive  perception  of  that 
truth  to  which  Lord  Verulam  alone  has  given  distinct 
voice: — "There  is  no  exquisite  beauty  which  has  not 
some  strangeness  in  its  proportion."  But  whether  ob 
scure,  original,  or  quaint,  he  was  at  all  times  sincere. 
He  had  no  affectations. 

From  the  ruins  of  Shelley  there  sprang  into  exis 
tence,  affronting  the  Heavens,  a  tottering  and  fantas 
tic  pagoda,  in  which  the  salient  angles,  tipped  with 
mad  jangling  bells,  were  the  idiosyncratic  faults  of  the 
great  original — faults  which  cannot  be  called  such  in 
view  of  his  purposes,  but  which  are  monstrous  when 
we  regard  his  works  as  addressed  to  mankind.  A 
"school"  arose — if  that  absurd  term  must  still  be  em 
ployed — a  school — a  system  of  rules — upon  the  basis 
of  the  Shelley  who  had  none.  Young  men  innumer 
able,  dazzled  with  the  glare  and  bewildered  with  the 
bizarrerie  of  the  divine  lighting  that  flickered  through 
the  clouds  of  the  "Prometheus,"  had  no  trouble  what 
ever  in  heaping  up  imitative  vapors,  but,  for  the  light 
ning,  were  content,  perforce,  with  its  spectrum,  in 
which  the  bizarrerie  appeared  without  the  fire.  Nor 


162  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

were  great  and  mature  minds  unimpressed  by  the  con 
templation  of  a  greater  and  more  mature;  and  thus 
gradually  were  interwoven  into  this  school  of  all  Law 
lessness — of  obscurity,  quaintness,  exaggeration — the 
misplaced  didacticism  of  Wordsworth,  and  even  more 
preposterously  anomalous  metaphysicianism  of  Cole 
ridge.  Matters  were  now  fast  verging  to  their  worst, 
and  at  length  in  Tennyson,  poetic  inconsistency  at 
tained  its  extreme.  But  it  was  precisely  this  extreme 
(for  the  greatest  error  and  the  greatest  truth  are 
scarcely  two  points  in  a  circle) — it  was  this  extreme 
which,  following  the  law  of  all  extremes,  wrought  in 
him — in  Tennyson — a  natural  and  inevitable  revul 
sion,  leading  him  first  to  contemn  and  secondly  to  in 
vestigate  his  early  manner,  and,  finally,  to  winnow 
from  its  magnificent  elements  the  truest  and  purest  of 
all  poetical  styles.  But  not  even  yet  is  the  process 
complete;  and  for  this  reason  in  part,  but  chiefly  on 
account  of  the  mere  fortuitousness  of  that  mental  and 
moral  combination  which  shall  unite  in  one  person  (if 
ever  it  shall)  the  Shelleyan  abandon,  the  Tennysonian 
poetic  sense,  the  most  profound  instinct  of  Art,  and 
the  sternest  Will  properly  to  blend  and  vigorously  to 
control  all; — chiefly,  we  say,  because  such  combina 
tion  of  antagonisms  must  be  purely  fortuitous,  has  the 
world  never  yet  seen  the  noblest  of  the  poems  of  which 
it  is  possible  that  it  may  be  put  in  possession. 

And  yet  Miss  Barrett  has  narrowly  missed  the  ful 
filment  of  these  conditions.  Her  poetic  inspiration  is 
the  highest — we  can  conceive  nothing  more  august. 
Her  sense  of  Art  is  pure  in  itself,  but  has  been  con 
taminated  by  pedantic  study  of  false  models — a  study 
which  has  the  more  easily  led  her  astray,  because  she 


THE  CRITIC  163 

placed  an  undue  value  upon  it  as  rare — as  alien  to  her 
character  of  woman.  The  accident  of  having  been 
long  secluded  by  ill  health  from  the  world  has  effected, 
moreover,  in  her  behalf,  what  an  innate  recklessness 
did  for  Shelley — has  imparted  to  her,  if  not  precisely 
that  abandon  to  which  I  have  referred,  at  least  a  some 
thing  that  stands  well  in  its  stead — a  comparative  inde 
pendence  of  men  and  opinions  with  which  she  did  not 
come  personally  in  contact — a  happy  audacity  of 
thought  and  expression  never  before  known  in  one  of 
her  sex.  It  is,  however,  this  same  accident  of  ill 
health,  perhaps,  which  has  invalidated  her  original 
Will — diverted  her  from  proper  individuality  of  pur 
pose — and  seduced  her  into  the  sin  of  imitation. 
Thus,  what  she  might  have  done,  we  cannot  alto 
gether  determine.  What  she  has  actually  accom 
plished  is  before  us.  With  Tennyson's  works  beside 
her,  and  a  keen  appreciation  of  them  in  her  soul — 
appreciation  too  keen  to  be  discriminative ; — with  an 
imagination  ethereally  delicate ;  with  inferior  art  and 
more  feeble  volition ;  she  has  written  poems  such  as  he 
could  not  write,  but  such  as  he,  under  her  conditions 
of  ill  health  and  seclusion,  would  have  written  during 
the  epoch  of  his  pupildom  in  that  school  which  arose 
out  of  Shelley,  and  from  which,  over  a  disgustful 
gulf  of  utter  incongruity  and  absurdity,  lit  only  by 
miasmatic  flashes,  into  the  broad  open  meadows  of 
Natural  Art  and  Divine  Genius,  he — Tennyson — is  at 
once  the  bridge  and  the  transition. 

PLAGIARISM 

[This  selection,  from  The  Broadway  Journal,  April 
5,  1845,  closed  the  so-called  "Longfellow  War,"  a  war 


164  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

about  plagiarism,  in  which  Longfellow  took  no  part. 
The  mystery  of  "Outis,"  who  entered  the  lists  in  be 
half  of  Longfellow,  remains  still  unsolved ;  but  he  was 
a  foeman  worthy  of  Poe's  steel.] 

It  should  not  be  supposed  that  I  feel  myself  indi 
vidually  aggrieved  in  the  letter  of  Outis.  He  has 
praised  me  even  more  than  he  has  blamed.  In  reply 
ing  to  him,  my  design  has  been  to  place  fairly  and  dis 
tinctly  before  the  literary  public  certain  principles  of 
criticism  for  which  I  have  been  long  contending,  and 
which  through  sheer  misrepresentation,  were  in  dan 
ger  of  being  misunderstood. 

Having  brought  the  subject,  in  this  view,  to  a 
close  in  the  last  "Journal,"  I  now  feel  at  liberty  to  add 
a  few  words  of  postscript,  by  way  of  freeing  myself  of 
any  suspicion  of  malevolence  or  discourtesy.  The 
thesis  of  my  argument,  in  general,  has  been  the  defini 
tion  of  the  grounds  on  which  a  charge  of  plagiarism 
may  be  based,  and  of  the  species  of  ratiocination  by 
which  it  is  to  be  established :  that  is  all.  It  will  be 
seen  by  any  one  who  shall  take  the  trouble  to  read 
what  I  have  written,  that  I  make  no  charge  of  moral 
delinquency  against  either  Mr.  Longfellow,  Mr.  Al- 
drich,  or  Mr.  Hood : — indeed,  lest  in  the  heat  of  argu 
ment,  I  may  have  uttered  any  words  which  may  admit 
of  being  tortured  into  such  an  interpretation,  I  here 
fully  disclaim  them  upon  the  spot. 

In  fact,  the  one  strong  point  of  defence  for  his 
friends  has  been  unaccountably  neglected  by  Outis. 
To  attempt  the  rebutting  of  a  charge  of  plagiarism  by 
the  broad  assertion  that  no  such  thing  as  plagiarism 
exists,  is  a  sotticism,  and  no  more — but  there  would 


THE  CRITIC  165 

have  been  nothing  of  unreason  in  rebutting  the  charge 
as  urged  either  against  Mr.  Longfellow,  Mr.  Aldrich, 
or  Mr.  Hood,  by  the  proposition  that  no  true  poet  can 
be  guilty  of  a  meanness — that  the  converse  of  the  pro 
position  is  a  contradiction  in  terms.  Should  there  be 
found  any  one  willing  to  dispute  with  me  this  point,  I 
would  decline  the  disputation  on  the  ground  that  my 
arguments  are  no  arguments  to  him. 

It  appears  to  me  that  what  seems  to  be  the  gross 
inconsistency  of  plagiarism  as  perpetrated  by  a  poet, 
is  very  easily  thus  resolved : — the  poetic  sentiment 
(even  without  reference  to  the  poetic  power)  implies  a 
peculiarly,  perhaps  abnormally  keen  appreciation  of 
the  beautiful,  with  a  longing  for  its  assimilation,  or  ab 
sorption,  into  poetic  identity.  What  the  poet  intensely 
admires,  becomes  thus,  in  very  fact,  although  only  par 
tially,  a  portion  of  his  own  intellect.  It  has  secondary 
origination  within  his  own  soul — an  origination  al 
together  apart,  although  springing  from  its  primary 
origination  from  without.  The  poet  is  thus  possessed 
by  another's  thought,  and  cannot  be  said  to  take  of  it, 
possession.  But,  in  either  view,  he  thoroughly  feels 
it  as  his  own — and  this  feeling  is  counteracted  only  by 
the  sensible  presence  of  its  true,  palpable  origin  in  the 
volume  from  which  he  has  derived  it — an  origin 
which,  in  the  long  lapse  of  years  it  is  almost  impossible 
not  to  forget — for  in  the  meantime  the  thought  itself 
is  forgotten.  But  the  frailest  association  will  regen 
erate  it — it  springs  up  with  all  the  vigor  of  a  new 
birth — its  absolute  originality  is  not  even  a  matter  of 
suspicion — and  when  the  poet  has  written  it  and 
printed  it,  and  on  its  account  is  charged  with  plagiar 
ism,  there  will  be  no  one  in  the  world  more'  entirely 


166  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

astounded  than  himself.  Now  from  what  I  have  said 
it  will  be  evident  that  the  liability  to  accidents  of  this 
character  is  in  the  direct  ratio  of  the  poetic  sentiment 
— of  the  susceptibility  to  the  poetic  impressions ;  and 
in  fact  all  literary  history  demonstrates  that,  for  the 
most  frequent  and  palpable  plagiarisms,  we  must 
search  the  works  of  the  most  eminent  poets. 

HOW  TO  IMPROVE  OUR  DRAMA 

[From  The  American  Whig  Rcineiv,  August,  1845. 
The  greater  part  of  Poe's  article  on  The  American 
Drama  is  devoted  to  a  detailed  criticism  of  N.  P.  Wil 
lis's  Tortesa  and  Longfellow's  Spanish  Student.  In 
the  July  preceding  he  had  written :  "The  writer  of  this 
article  is  hiniself  the  son  of  an  actress — has  invariably 
made  it  his  boast — and  no  earl  was  ever  prouder  of  his 
earldom  than  he  of  the  descent  from  a  woman  who,  al 
though  well-born,  hesitated  not  to  consecrate  to  the 
drama  her  brief  career  of  genius  and  beauty."  The 
keynote  of  the  following  extract  is  struck  by  Poe  in 
his  Marginalia:  "We  must  neglect  our  models  and 
study  our  capabilities."] 

A  biographist  of  Berryer  calls  him  "I'homme  qui, 
dans  sa  description,  demande  la  plus  grande  quantite 
possible  d'antithese" — but  that  ever  recurring  topic, 
the  decline  of  the  drama,  seems  to  have  consumed,  of 
late,  more  of  the  material  in  question  than  would  have 
sufficed  for  a  dozen  prime  ministers — even  admitting 
them  to  be  French.  Every  trick  of  thought  and  every 
harlequinade  of  phrase  has  been  put  in  operation  for 
the  purpose  "de  nier  ce  qui  est,  et  d'expliquer  ce  qui 
n'est  pas/' 


THE  CRITIC  167 

Ce  qui  n'est  pas: — for  the  drama  has  not  declined. 
The  facts  and  the  philosophy  of  the  case  seem  to  be 
these.  The  great  opponent  to  Progress  is  Conser 
vatism.  In  other  words — the  great  adversary  of  In 
vention  is  Imitation : — the  propositions  are  in  spirit 
identical.  Just  as  an  art  is  imitative,  it  is  stationary. 
The  most  imitative  arts  are  the  most  prone  to  repose — 
and  the  converse.  Upon  the  utilitarian — upon  the 
business  arts,  where  necessity  impels,  Invention,  Ne 
cessity's  well-understood  offspring,  is  ever  in  attend 
ance.  And  the  less  we  see  of  the  mother  the  less  we 
behold  of  the  child.  No  one  complains  of  the  decline 
of  the  art  of  Engineering.  Here  the  Reason,  which 
never  retrogrades,  or  reposes,  is  called  into  play.  But 
let  us  glance  at  Sculpture.  We  are  not  worse,  here, 
than  the  ancients,  let  pedantry  say  what  it  may  (the 
Venus  of  Canova  is  worth  at  any  time  two  of  that  of 
Cleomenes),  but  it  is  equally  certain  that  we  have 
made,  in  general,  no  advances ;  and  Sculpture,  prop 
erly  considered,  is  perhaps  the  most  imitative  of  all 
arts  which  have  a  right  to  the  title  of  Art  at  all.  Look 
ing  next  at  Painting,  we  find  that  we  have  to  boast  of 
progress  only  in  the  ratio  of  the  inferior  imitativeness 
of  Painting  when  compared  with  Sculpture.  As  far 
indeed  as  we  have  any  means  of  judging,  our  improve 
ment  has  been  exceedingly  little,  and  did  we  know  any 
thing  of  ancient  Art  in  this  department,  we  might  be 
astonished  at  discovering  that  we  had  advanced  even 
far  less  than  we  suppose.  As  regards  Architecture, 
whatever  progress  we  have  made,  has  been  precisely  in 
those  particulars  which  have  no  reference  to  imitation : 
— that  is  to  say  we  have  improved  the  utilitarian  and 
not  the  ornamental  provinces  of  the  art.  Where  Rea- 


i68  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

son  predominated,  we  advanced;  where  mere  Feeling 
or  Taste  was  the  guide,  we  remained  as  we  were. 

Coming  to  the  Drama,  we  shall  see  that  in  its 
mechanism  we  have  made  progress,  while  in  its  spirit 
uality  we  have  done  little  or  nothing  for  centuries  cer 
tainly — and,  perhaps,  little  or  nothing  for  thousands 
of  years.  And  this  is  because  what  we  term  the  spir 
ituality  of  the  drama  is  precisely  its  imitative  portion — 
is  exactly  that  portion  which  distinguishes  it  as  one  of 
the  principal  of  the  imitative  arts. 

Sculptors,  painters,  dramatists,  are,  from  the  very 
nature  of  their  material, — their  spiritual  material — 
imitators — conservatists — prone  to  repose  in  old  Feel 
ing  and  in  antique  Taste.  For  this  reason — and  for 
this  reason  only — the  arts  of  Sculpture,  Painting,  and 
the  Drama  have  not  advanced — or  have  advanced 
feebly,  and  inversely  in  the  ratio  of  their  imitativeness. 

But  it  by  no  means  follows  that  either  has  declined. 
All  seem  to  have  declined,  because  they  have  remained 
stationary  while  the  multitudinous  other  arts  (of  rea 
son)  have  flitted  so  rapidly  by  them.  In  the  same 
manner  the  traveller  by  railroad  can  imagine  that  the 
trees  by  the  wayside  are  retrograding.  The  trees  in 
this  case  are  absolutely  stationary — but  the  Drama  has 
not  been  altogether  so,  although  its  progress  has  been 
so  slight  as  not  to  interfere  with,  the  general  effect — 
that  of  seeming  retrogradation  or  decline. 

This  seeming  retrogradation,  however,  is  to  all 
practical  intents  an  absolute  one.  Whether  the  drama 
has  declined,  or  whether  it  has  merely  remained  sta 
tionary,  is  a  point  of  no  importance,  so  far  as  concerns 
the  public  encouragement  of  the  drama.  It  is  unsup 
ported,  in  either  case,  because  it  does  not  deserve 
support. 


THE  CRITIC  169 

But  if  this  stagnation,  or  deterioration,  grows  out 
of  the  very  idiosyncrasy  of  the  drama  itself,  as  one  of 
the  principal  of  the  imitative  arts,  how  is  it  possible 
that  a  remedy  shall  be  applied — since  it  is  clearly  im 
possible  to  alter  the  nature  of  the  art,  and  yet  leave  it 
the  art  which  it  now  is  ? 

We  have  already  spoken  of  the  improvements  ef 
fected,  in  Architecture,  in  all  its  utilitarian  depart 
ments,  and  in  the  Drama,  at  all  the  points  of  its 
mechanism.  "Wherever  Reason  predominates  we  ad 
vance;  where  mere  Feeling  or  Taste  is  the  guide,  we 
remain  as  we  are."  We  wish  now  to  suggest  that,  by 
the  engrafting  of  Reason  upon  Feeling  and  Taste,  we 
shall  be  able,  and  thus  alone  shall  be  able,  to  force  the 
modern  Drama  into  the  production  of  any  profitable 
fruit. 

At  present,  what  is  it  we  do  ?  We  are  content  if, 
with  Feeling  and  Taste,  a  dramatist  does  as  other  dra 
matists  have  done.  The  most  successful  of  the  more 
immediately  modern  playwrights  has  been  Sheridan 
Knowles  and  to  play  Sheridan  Knowles  seems  to  be 
the  highest  ambition  of  our  writers  for  the  stage. 
Now  the  author  of  "The  Hunchback,"  possesses  what 
we  are  weak  enough  to  term  the  true  "dramatic  feel 
ing,"  and  this  true  dramatic  feeling  he  has  manifested 
in  the  most  preposterous  series  of  imitations  of  the 
Elizabethan  drama,  by  which  ever  mankind  were  in 
sulted  and  beguiled.  Not  only  did  he  adhere  to  the 
old  plots,  the  old  characters,  the  old  stage  convention 
alities  throughout ;  but,  he  went  even  so  far  as  to  per 
sist  in  the  obsolete  phraseologies  of  the  Elizabethan 
period — and  just  in  proportion  to  his  obstinacy  and 
absurdity  at  all  points,  did  we  pretend  to  like  him  the 
better,  and  pretend  to  consider  him  a  great  dramatist. 


170  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Pretend — for  every  particle  of  it  was  pretense. 
Never  was  enthusiasm  more  utterly  false  than  that 
which  so  many  "respectable  audiences"  endeavored  to 
get  up  for  these  plays — endeavored  to  get  up,  first, 
because  there  was  a  general  desire  to  see  the  drama 
revive,  and  secondly,  because  we  had  been  all  along 
entertaining  the  fancy  that  "the  decline  of  the  drama" 
meant  little,  if  anything,  else  than  its  deviation  from 
the  Elizabethan  routine — and  that,  consequently,  the 
return  to  the  Elizabethan  routine  was,  and  of  neces 
sity  must  be,  the  revival  of  the  drama. 

But  if  the  principles  we  have  been  at  some  trouble 
in  explaining,  are  true — and  most  profoundly  do  we 
feel  them  to  be  so — if  the  spirit  of  imitation  is,  in  fact, 
the  real  source  of  the  drama's  stagnation — and  if  it  is 
so  because  of  the  tendency  in  all  imitation  to  render 
Reason  subservient  to  Feeling  and  to  Taste — it  is  clear 
that  only  by  deliberate  counteracting  of  the  spirit,  and 
of  the  tendency  of  the  spirit,  we  can  hope  to  succeed 
in  the  drama's  revival. 

The  first  thing  necessary  is  to  burn  or  bury  the  "old 
models,"  and  to  forget,  as  quickly  as  possible,  that  ever 
a  play  has  been  penned.  The  second  thing  is  to  con 
sider  de  novo  what  are  the  capabilities  of  the  drama — 
not  merely  what  hitherto  have  been  its  conventional 
purposes.  The  third  and  last  point  has  reference  to 
the  composition  of  a  play  (showing  to  the  fullest  ex 
tent  these  capabilities),  conceived  and  constructed 
with  Feeling  and  with  Taste,  but  with  Feeling  and 
Taste  guided  and  controlled  in  every  particular  by  the 
details  of  Reason — of  Common  Sense — in  a  word,  of 
a  Natural  Art. 

It  is  obvious,  in  the  meantime,  that  towards  the 


THE  CRITIC  171 

good  end  in  view,  much  may  be  effected  by  discrim 
inative  criticism  on  what  has  already  been  done.  The 
field,  thus  stated,  is  of  course,  practically  illimitable — 
and  to  Americans  the  American  drama  is  the  special 
point  of  interest.  We  propose  therefore,  in  a  series  of 
papers,  to  take  a  somewhat  deliberate  survey  of  some 
few  of  the  most  noticeable  American  plays.  We  shall 
do  this  without  reference  either  to  the  date  of  the  com 
position,  or  its  adaptation  for  the  closet  or  the  stage. 
We  shall  speak  with  absolute  frankness  both  of  merits 
and  defects — our  principal  object  being  understood 
not  as  that  of  mere  commentary  on  the  individual 
play — but  on  the  drama  in  general,  and  on  the  Ameri 
can  drama  in  especial,  of  which  each  individual  play 
is  a  constituent  part. 

GERMAN   CRITICISM 

[Thiodolf,  by  Baron  de  la  Motte  Fouque,  reviewed 
in  Graham's  Magazine,  December,  1846.  Fouque's 
Undine  (1811)  Poe  considered  almost  faultless:  "It 
is  a  model  of  models  in  regard  to  the  high  artistical 
talent  which  it  evinces."  His  only  objection  was  that, 
though  not  an  allegory,  "it  has  too  close  an  affinity  to 
that  most  indefensible  species  of  writing."  The  fol 
lowing  review  barely  mentions  Thiodolf  but  contains  a 
sort  of  summary  of  Poe's  scattered  comments  on  Ger 
man  literature  and  literary  criticism.  Of  course  both 
works  had  been  translated  before  Poe  wrote  about 
them.] 

This  book  could  never  have  been  popular  out  of 
Germany.  It  is  too  simple — too  direct — too  obvious — 
too  bald — not  sufficiently  complex — to  be  relished  by 


172  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

any  people  who  have  thoroughly  passed  the  first  (or 
impulsive)  epoch  of  literary  civilization.  The  Ger 
mans  have  not  yet  passed  this  first  epoch.  It  must  be 
remembered  that  during  the  whole  of  the  middle  ages 
they  lived  in  utter  ignorance  of  the  art  of  tvriting. 
From  so  total  a  darkness,  of  so  late  a  date,  they  could 
not,  as  a  nation,  have  as  yet  fully  emerged  into  the  sec 
ond  or  critical  epoch.  Individual  Germans  have  been 
critical  in  the  best  sense — but  the  masses  are  unleav 
ened.  Literary  Germany  thus  presents  the  singular 
spectacle  of  the  impulsive  spirit  surrounded  by  the 
critical,  and,  of  course,  in  some  measure  influenced 
thereby.  England,  for  example,  has  advanced  far, 
and  France  much  farther,  into  the  critical  epoch ;  and 
their  effect  on  the  German  mind  is  seen  in  the  wildly 
anomalous  condition  of  the  German  literature  at  large. 
That  this  latter  will  be  improved  by  age,  however, 
should  never  be  maintained.  As  the  impulsive  spirit 
subsides,  and  the  critical  uprises,  there  will  appear  the 
polished  insipidity  of  the  later  England,  or  that  ulti 
mate  throe  of  taste  which  has  found  its  best  exemplifi 
cation  in  Sue.  At  present  the  German  literature  re 
sembles  no  other  on  the  face  of  the  earth — for  it  is  the 
result  of  certain  conditions  which,  before  this  individ 
ual  instance  of  their  fulfillment,  have  never  been  ful 
filled.  And  this  anomalous  state  to  which  I  refer  is 
the  source  of  our  anomalous  criticism  upon  what  that 
state  produces — is  the  source  of  the  grossly  conflict 
ing  opinions  about  German  letters.  For  my  own  part, 
I  admit  the  German  vigor,  the  German  directness, 
boldness,  imagination,  and  some  other  qualities  of  im 
pulse,  just  as  I  am  willing  to  admit  and  admire  these 
qualities  in  the  first  (or  impulsive)  epochs  of  British 


THE  CRITIC  173 

and  French  letters.  At  the  German  criticism,  how 
ever,  I  cannot  refrain  from  laughing  all  the  more 
heartily,  all  the  more  seriously  I  hear  it  praised.  Not 
that,  in  detail,  it  affects  me  as  an  absurdity — but  in  the 
adaptation  of  its  details.  It  abounds  in  brilliant  bub 
bles  of  suggestion,  but  these  rise  and  sink  and  jostle 
each  other,  until  the  whole  vortex  of  thought  in  which 
they  originate  is  one  indistinguishable  chaos  of  froth. 
The  German  criticism  is  unsettled,  and  can  only  be 
settled  by  time.  At  present  it  suggests  without  dem 
onstrating,  or  convincing,  or  effecting  any  definite 
purpose  under  the  sun.  We  read  it,  rub  our  fore 
heads,  and  ask  "What  then?"  I  am  not  ashamed  to 
say  that  I  prefer  even  Voltaire  to  Goethe,  and  hold 
Macaulay  to  possess  more  of  the  true  critical  spirit 
than  Augustus  William  and  Frederick  Schlegel 
combined. 

THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  RAVEN 

[Poe's  Philosophy  of  Composition,  first  published 
in  Graham's  Magazine,  April,  1846,  and  here  repro 
duced  entire,  has  been  called  a  hoax  by  most  foreign 
critics.  Even  Baudelaire  thinks  that  "un  peu  de  char- 
latanerie"  is  to  be  detected  in  it.  On  the  contrary,  it  is 
nothing  more  than  a  summarized  application  of  Poe's 
most  characteristic  principles  of  criticism.  It  does  not 
deal  with  creation  but  with  formal  adaptation.  Every 
point  made  may  be  found,  explicit  or  implicit,  in  what 
Poe  had  already  said  about  poetry  in  general  or  poems 
in  particular.  The  reason  that  it  gives  offense  to 
many  Poe  admirers  is  because  its  import  is  misunder 
stood.  The  article  does  not  attempt  to  define  genius, 


174  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

far  less  to  reduce  genius  to  the  level  of  the  mechanical 
and  mathematical.  Its  theme  is  neither  genius  nor  the 
pathway  by  which  genius  arrives  at  its  conceptions* 
Its  sole  and  central  question  is, — Given  genius,  given 
the  original  inspiration,  given  the  pre-determined  con 
ception,  how  does  the  poet  go  about  embodying  this 
conception  in  word,  stanza,  and  melody?  How  does 
craftsmanship  come  to  the  aid  of  vision  ?  Composition 
is  the  theme,  not  creation.] 

Charles  Dickens,  in  a  note  now  lying  before  me, 
alluding  to  an  examination  I  once  made  of  the  mechan 
ism  of  "Barnaby  Rudge,"  says — "By  the  way,  are  you 
aware  that  Godwin  wrote  his  'Caleb  Williams'  back 
wards?  He  first  involved  his  hero  in  a  web  of  dif 
ficulties,  forming  the  second  volume,  and  then,  for 
the  first,  cast  about  him  for  some  mode  of  accounting 
for  what  had  been  done." 

I  cannot  think  this  the  precise  mode  of  procedure 
on  the  part  of  Godwin — and  indeed  what  he  himself 
acknowledges,  is  not  altogether  in  accordance  with  Mr. 
Dickens'  idea — but  the  author  of  "Caleb  Williams" 
was  too  good  an  artist  not  to  perceive  the  advantage 
derivable  from  at  least  a  somewhat  similar  process. 
Nothing  is  more  clear  than  that  every  plot,  worth  the 
name,  must  be  elaborated  to  its  denouement  before  any 
thing  be  attempted  with  the  pen.  It  is  only  with  the 
denouement  constantly  in  view  that  we  can  give  a  plot 
its  indispensable  air  of  consequence,  or  causation,  by 
making  the  incidents,  and  especially  the  tone  at  all 
points,  tend  to  the  development  of  the  intention. 

There  is  a  radical  error,  I  think,  in  the  usual  mode 
of  constructing  a  story.  Either  history  affords  a 


THE  CRITIC  175 

thesis — or  one  is  suggested  by  an  incident  of  the  day — 
or,  at  best,  the  author  sets  himself  to  work  in  the 
combination  of  striking  events  to  form  merely  the 
basis  of  his  narrative — designing,  generally,  to  fill  in 
with  description,  dialogue,  or  autorial  comment,  what 
ever  crevices  of  fact,  or  action,  may,  from  page  to 
page,  render  themselves  apparent. 

I  prefer  commencing  with  the  consideration  of  an 
effect.  Keeping  originality  always  in  view — for  he  is 
false  to  himself  who  ventures  to  dispense  with  so 
obvious  and  so  easily  attainable  a  source  of  interest — 
I  say  to  myself,  in  the  first  place,  "Of  the  innumer 
able  effects,  or  impressions,  of  which  the  heart,  the 
intellect,  or  (more  generally)  the  soul  is  susceptible, 
what  one  shall  I,  on  the  present  occasion,  select?" 
Having  chosen  a  novel,  first,  and  secondly  a  vivid  ef 
fect,  I  consider  whether  it  can  be  best  wrought  by 
incident  or  tone — whether  by  ordinary  incidents  and 
peculiar  tone,  or  the  converse,  or  by  peculiarity  both 
of  incident  and  tone — afterward  looking  about  me  (or 
rather  within)  for  such  combinations  of  event,  or  tone, 
as  shall  best  aid  me  in  the  construction  of  the  effect. 

I  have  often  thought  how  interesting  a  magazine 
paper  might  be  written  by  any  author  who  would — • 
that  is  to  say,  who  could — detail,  step  by  step,  the  pro 
cesses  by  which  any  one  of  his  compositions  attained 
its  ultimate  point  of  completion.  Why  such  a  paper 
has  never  been  given  to  the  world,  I  am  much  at  a 
loss  to  say — but,  perhaps,  the  autorial  vanity  has  had 
more  to  do  with  the  omission  than  any  one  other  cause. 
Most  writers — poets  in  especial — prefer  having  it  un 
derstood  that  they  compose  by  a  species  of  fine  frenzy 
— an  ecstatic  intuition — and  would  positively  shudder 


176  EDGAR  ALLAN  EOE 

at  letting  the  public  take  a  peep  behind  the  scenes,  at 
the  elaborate  and  vacillating  crudities  of  thought — at 
the  true  purposes  seized  only  at  the  last  moment — at 
the  innumerable  glimpses  of  idea  that  arrived  not  at 
the  maturity  of  full  view — at  the  fully  matured  fancies 
discarded  in  despair  as  unmanageable — at  the  cautious 
selections  and  rejections — at  the  painful  erasures  and 
interpolations — in  a  word,  at  the  wheels  and  pinions — 
the  tackle  for  scene-shifting — the  step-ladders  and 
demon-traps — the  cock's  feathers,  the  red  paint  and  the 
black  patches,  which,  in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  the 
hundred,  constitute  the  properties  of  the  literary 
histrlo. 

I  am  aware,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  case  is  by 
no  means  common,  in  which  an  author  is  at  all  in  con 
dition  to  retrace  the  steps  by  which  his  conclusions 
have  been  attained.  In  general,  suggestions,  having 
arisen  pell-mell,  are  pursued  and  forgotten  in  a  similar 
manner. 

For  my  own  part,  I  have  neither  sympathy  with 
the  repugnance  alluded  to,  nor,  at  any  time,  the  least 
difficulty  in  recalling  to  mind  the  progressive  steps  of 
any  of  my  compositions ;  and,  since  the  interest  of  an 
analysis,  or  reconstruction,  such  as  I  have  considered 
a  desideratum,  is  quite  independent  of  any  real  or 
fancied  interest  in  the  thing  analyzed,  it  will  not  be 
regarded  as  a  breach  of  decorum  on  my  part  to  show 
the  modus  operandi  by  which  some  one  of  my  own 
works  was  put  together.  I  select  "The  Raven,"  as  the 
most  generally  known.  It  is  my  design  to  render  it 
manifest  that  no  one  point  in  its  composition  is  refer 
able  either  to  accident  or  intuition — that  the  work  pro- 


THE  CRITIC  177 

ceeded,  step  by  step,  to  its  completion  with  the  preci 
sion  and  rigid  consequence  of  a  mathematical  problem. 

Let  us  dismiss,  as  irrelevant  to  the  poem,  per  se, 
the  circumstance — or  say  the  necessity — which,  in  the 
first  place,  gave  rjse  to  the  intention  of  composing  a 
poem  that  should  suit  at  once  the  popular  and  the 
critical  taste. 

We  commence,  then,  with  this  intention. 

The  initial  consideration  was  that  of  extent.  If  any 
literary  work  is  too  long  to  be  read  at  one  sitting,  we 
must  be  content  to  dispense  with  the  immensely  impor 
tant  effect  derivable  from  unity  of  impression — for,  if 
two  sittings  be  required,  the  affairs  of  the  world  in 
terfere,  and  everything  like  totality  is  at  once  de 
stroyed.  But  since,  ceteris  paribns,  no  poet  can  afford 
to  dispense  with  anything  that  may  advance  his  design, 
it  but  remains  to  be  seen  whether  there  is,  in  extent, 
any  advantage  to  counterbalance  the  loss  of  unity 
which  attends  it.  Here  I  say  no,  at  once.  What  we 
term  a  long  poem  is,  in  fact,  merely  a  succession  of 
brief  ones — that  is  to  say,  of  brief  poetical  effects.  It 
is  needless  to  demonstrate  that  a  poem  is  such,  only 
inasmuch  as  it  intensely  excites,  by  elevating,  the  soul ; 
and  all  intense  excitements  are,  through  a  psychal  ne 
cessity,  brief.  For  this  reason,  at  least  one  half  of 
the  "Paradise  Lost"  is  essentially  prose — a  succession 
of  poetical  excitements  interspersed,  inevitably,  with 
corresponding  depressions — the  whole  being  deprived, 
through  the  extremeness  of  its  length,  of  the  vastly 
important  artistic  element,  totality,  or  unity,  of  effect. 

It  appears  evident,  then,  that  there  is  a  distinct 
limit,  as  regards  length,  to  all  works  of  literary  art — 
the  limit  of  a  single  sitting — and  that,  although  in  cer- 


178  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

tain  classes  of  prose  composition,  such  as  "Robinson 
Crusoe,"  (demanding  no  unity,)  this  limit  may  be 
advantageously  overpassed,  it  can  never  properly  be 
overpassed  in  a  poem.  Within  this  limit,  the  extent  of 
a  poem  may  be  made  to  bear  mathematical  relation  to 
its  merit — in  other  words,  to  the  excitement  or  eleva 
tion — again  in  other  words,  to  the  degree  of  the  true 
poetical  effect  which  it  is  capable  of  inducing ;  for  it  is 
clear  that  the  brevity  must  be  in  direct  ratio  of  the 
intensity  of  the  intended  effect: — this,  with  one 
proviso — that  a  certain  degree  of  duration  is  abso 
lutely  requisite  for  the  production  of  any  effect  at  all. 

Holding  in  view  these  considerations,  as  well  as 
that  degree  of  excitement  which  I  deemed  not  above 
the  popular,  while  not  below  the  critical,  taste,  I 
reached  at  once  what  I  conceived  the  proper  length  for 
my  intended  poem — a  length  of  about  one  hundred 
lines.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  hundred  and  eight. 

My  next  thought  concerned  the  choice  of  an  im 
pression,  or  effect,  to  be  conveyed :  and  here  I  may  as 
well  observe  that,  throughout  the  construction,  I  kept 
steadily  in  view  the  design  of  rendering  the  work 
universally  appreciable.  I  should  be  carried  too  far 
cut  of  my  immediate  topic  were  I  to  demonstrate 
a  point  upon  which  I  have  repeatedly  insisted,  and 
•which,  with  the  poetical,  stands  not  in  the  slightest 
need  of  demonstration — the  point,  I  mean,  that  Beauty 
is  the  sole  legitimate  province  of  the  poem.  A  few 
words,  however,  in  elucidation  of  my  real  meaningj 
v/hich  some  of  my  friends  have  evinced  a  disposition 
to  misrepresent.  That  pleasure  which  is  at  once  the 
most  intense,  the  most  elevating,  and  the  most  pure,  is, 
J  believe,  found  in  the  contemplation  of  the  beautiful. 


THE  CRITIC  179 

When,  indeed,  men  speak  of  Beauty,  they  mean,  pre 
cisely,  not  a  quality,  as  is  supposed,  but  an  effect — 
they  refer,  in  short,  just  to  that  intense  and  pure  eleva 
tion  of  soul — not-  of  intellect,  or  of  heart — upon  which 
I  have  commented,  and  which  is  experienced  in  con 
sequence  of  contemplating  "the  beautiful."  Now  I 
designate  Beauty  as  the  province  of  the  poem,  merely 
because  it  is  an  obvious  rule  of  Art  that  effects  should 
be  made  to  spring  from  direct  causes — that  objects 
should  be  attained  through  means  best  adapted  for 
their  attainment — no  one  as  yet  having  been  weak 
enough  to  deny  that  the  peculiar  elevation  alluded  to 
is  most  readily  attained  in  the  poem.  Now  the  ob 
ject,  Truth,  or  the  satisfaction  of  the  intellect,  and  the 
object  Passion,  or  the  excitement  of  the  heart,  are, 
although  attainable,  to  a  certain  extent,  in  poetry,  far 
more  readily  attainable  in  prose.  Truth,  in  fact,  de 
mands  a  precision,  and  Passion,  a  homeliness  (the  truly 
passionate  will  comprehend  me)  which  are  absolutely 
antagonistic  to  that  Beauty  which,  I  maintain,  is  the 
excitement,  or  pleasurable  elevation,  of  the  soul.  It 
by  no  means  follows  from  anything  here  said,  that 
passion,  or  even  truth,  may  not  be  introduced,  and  even 
profitably  introduced,  into  a  poem — for  they  may 
serve  in  elucidation,  or  aid  the  general  effect,  as  do 
discords  in  music,  by  contrast — but  the  true  artist  will 
always  contrive,  first,  to  tone  them  into  proper  sub 
servience  to  the  predominant  aim,  and,  secondly,  to 
enveil  them,  as  far  as  possible,  in  that  Beauty  which 
is  the  atmosphere  and  the  essence  of  the  poem. 

Regarding,  then,  Beauty  as  my  province,  my  next 
question  referred  to  the  tone  of  its  highest  manifesta 
tion — and  all  experience  has  shown  that  this  tone  is 


i8o  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

one  of  sadness.  Beauty  of  whatever  kind,  in  its  su 
preme  development,  invariably  excites  the  sensitive 
soul  to  tears.  Melancholy  is  thus  the  most  legitimate 
of  all  the  poetical  tones. 

The  length,  the  province,  and  the  tone,  being  thus 
determined,  I  betook  myself  to  ordinary  induction,  with 
the  view  of  obtaining  some  artistic  piquancy  which 
might  serve  me  as  a  key-note  in  the  construction  of 
the  poem — some  pivot  upon  which  the  whole  structure 
might  turn.  In  carefully  thinking  over  all  the  usual 
artistic  effects — or  more  properly  points,  in  the  theatri 
cal  sense — I  did  not  fail  to  perceive  immediately  that 
no  one  had  been  so  universally  employed  as  that  of 
the  refrain.  The  universality  of  its  employment  suf 
ficed  to  assure  me  of  its  intrinsic  value,  and  spared 
me  the  necessity  of  submitting  it  to  analysis.  I  con 
sidered  it,  however,  with  regard  to  its  susceptibility 
of  improvement,  and  soon  saw  it  to  be  in  a  primitive 
condition.  As  commonly  used,  the  refrain,  or  burden, 
not  only  is  limited  to  lyric  verse,  but  depends  for  its 
impression  upon  the  force  of  monotone — both  in 
sound  and  thought.  The  pleasure  is  deduced  solely 
from  the  sense  of  identity — of  repetition.  I  resolved 
to  diversify,  and  so  vastly  heighten,  the  effect,  by  ad 
hering,  in  general,  to  the  monotone  of  sound,  while  I 
continually  varied  that  of  thought :  that  is  to  say,  I  de 
termined  to  produce  continuously  novel  effects,  by  the 
variation  of  the  application  of  the  refrain — the  refrain 
itself  remaining,  for  the  most  part,  unvaried. 

These  points  being  settled,  I  next  bethought  me 
of  the  nature  of  my  refrain.  Since  its  application  was 
to  be  repeatedly  varied,  it  was  clear  that  the  refrain 
itself  must  be  brief,  for  there  would  have  been  an  in- 


THE  CRITIC  181 

surmountable  difficulty  in  frequent  variations  of  appli 
cation  in  any  sentence  of  length.  In  proportion  to  the 
brevity  of  the  sentence,  would,  of  course,  be  the  facil 
ity  of  the  variation.  This  led  me  at  once  to  a  single 
word  as  the  best  refrain. 

The  question  now  arose  as  to  the  character  of  the 
word.  Having  made  up  my  mind  to  a  refrain,  the 
division  of  the  poem  into  stanzas  was,  of  course,  a 
corollary :  the  refrain  forming  the  close  to  each  stanza. 
That  such  a  close,  to  have  force,  must  be  sonorous  and 
susceptible  of  protracted  emphasis,  admitted  no  doubt : 
and  these  considerations  inevitably  led  me  to  the  long 
o  as  the  most  sonorous  vowel,  in  connection  with  r  as 
the  most  producible  consonant. 

The  sound  of  the  refrain  being  thus  determined,  it 
became  necessary  to  select  a  word  embodying  this 
sound,  and  at  the  same  time  in  the  fullest  possible 
keeping  with  that  melancholy  which  I  had  predeter 
mined  as  the  tone  of  the  poem.  In  such  a  search  it 
would  have  been  absolutely  impossible  to  overlook  the 
word  "Nevermore."  In  fact,  it  was  the  very  first 
which  presented  itself. 

The  next  desideratum  was  a  pretext  for  the  contin 
uous  use  of  the  one  word  "nevermore."  In  observing 
the  difficulty  which  I  at  once  found  in  inventing  a 
sufficiently  plausible  reason  for  its  continuous  repeti 
tion,  I  did  not  fail  to  perceive  that  this  difficulty  arose 
solely  from  the  pre-assumption  that  the  word  was  to 
be  so  continuously  or  monotonously  spoken  by  a  human 
being — I  did  not  fail  to  perceive,  in  short,  that  the  dif 
ficulty  lay  in  the  reconciliation  of  this  monotony  with 
the  exercise  of  reason  on  the  part  of  the  creature  re 
peating  the  word.  Here,  then,  immediately  arose  the 


182  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

idea  of  a  wow-reasoning  creature  capable  of  speech ; 
and,  very  naturally,  a  parrot,  in  the  first  instance,  sug 
gested  itself,  but  was  superseded  forthwith  by  a  Raven, 
as  equally  capable  of  speech,  and  infinitely  more  in 
keeping  with  the  intended  tone. 

I  had  now  gone  so  far  as  the  conception  of  a  Raven 
— the  bird  of  ill  omen — monotonously  repeating  the 
one  word,  "Nevermore,"  at  the  conclusion  of  each 
stanza,  in  a  poem  of  melancholy  tone,  and  in  length 
about  one  hundred  lines.  Now,  never  losing  sight  of 
the  object  siipremeness,  or  perfection,  at  all  points,  I 
asked  myself — "Of  all  melancholy  topics,  what,  ac 
cording  to  the  universal  understanding  of  mankind,  is 
the  most  melancholy  ?"  Death — was  the  obvious  reply. 
"And  when,"  I  said,  "is  this  most  melancholy  of  topics 
most  poetical?"  From  what  I  have  already  explained 
at  some  length,  the  answer,  here  also,  is  obvious — 
"When  it  most  closely  allies  itself  to  Beauty :  the  death, 
then,  of  a  beautiful  woman  is,  unquestionably,  the  most 
poetical  topic  in  the  world — and  equally  is  it  beyond 
doubt  that  the  lips  best  suited  for  such  topic  are  those 
of  a  bereaved  lover." 

I  had  now  to  combine  the  two  ideas,  of  a  lover  la 
menting  his  deceased  mistress  and  a  Raven  continu 
ously  repeating  the  word  "Nevermore" — I  had  to  com 
bine  these,  bearing  in  mind  my  design  of  varying,  at 
every  turn,  the  application  of  the  word  repeated ;  but 
the  only  intelligible  mode  of  such  combination  is  that 
of  imagining  the  Raven  employing  the  word  in  answer 
to  the  queries  of  the  lover.  And  here  it  was  that  I 
saw  at  once  the  opportunity  afforded  for  the  effect  on 
which  I  had  been  depending — that  is  to  say,  the  effect 
of  the  variation  of  application.  I  saw  that  I  could 


THE  CRITIC  183 

make  the  first  query  propounded  by  the  lover — the 
first  query  to  which  the  Raven  should  reply  "Never 
more" — that  I  could  make  this  first  query  a  common 
place  one — the  second  less  so — the  third  still  less,  and 
so  on — until  at  length  the  lover,  startled  from  his 
original  nonchalance  by  the  melancholy  character  of 
the  word  itself — by  its  frequent  repetition — and  by  a 
consideration  of  the  ominous  reputation  of  the  fowl 
that  uttered  it — is  at  length  excited  to  superstition, 
and  wildly  propounds  queries  of  a  far  different  char 
acter — queries  whose  solution  he  has  passionately  at 
heart — propounds  them  half  in  superstition  and  half 
in  that  species  of  despair  which  delights  in  self-torture 
— propounds  them  not  altogether  because  he  believes 
in  the  prophetic  or  demoniac  character  of  the  bird 
(which,  reason  assures  him,  is  merely  repeating  a  les 
son  learned  by  rote)  but  because  he  experiences  a 
phrenzied  pleasure  in  so  modeling  his  questions  as  to 
receive  from  the  expected  "Nevermore"  the  most  deli 
cious  because  the  most  intolerable  of  sorrow.  Per 
ceiving  the  opportunity  thus  afforded  me — or,  more 
strictly,  thus  forced  upon  me  in  the  progress  of  the 
construction — I  first  established  in  mind  the  climax; 
or  concluding  query — that  to  which  "Nevermore'7 
should  be  in  the  last  place  an  answer — that  in  re 
ply  to  which  this  word  "Nevermore"  should  involve 
the  utmost  conceivable  amount  of  sorrow  and 
despair. 

Here  then  the  poem  may  be  said  to  have  its  be 
ginning — at  the  end,  where  all  works  of  art  should 
begin — for  it  was  here,  at  this  point  of  my  preconsid- 
erations,  that  I  first  put  pen  to  paper  in  the  composi 
tion  of  the  stanza : 


184  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

"Prophet,"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil !  prophet  still  if  bird  or  devil ! 
By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us — by  that  God  we  both 

adore, 

Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden,  if  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 
It    shall    clasp    a    sainted    maiden    whom    the    angels    name 

Lenore — 
Clasp   a   rare   and   radiant   maiden   whom   the   angels   name 

Lenore." 

Quoth  the  raven  "Nevermore." 

I  composed  this  stanza,  at  this  point,  first  that,  by 
establishing  the  climax,  I  might  the  better  vary  and 
graduate,  as  regards  seriousness  and  importance,  the 
preceding  queries  of  the  lover — and,  secondly,  that  I 
might  definitely  settle  the  rhythm,  the  metre,  and  the 
length  and  general  arrangement  of  the  stanza — as  well 
as  graduate  the  stanzas  which  were  to  precede,  so  that 
none  of  them  might  surpass  this  in  rhythmical  effect. 
Had  I  been  able,  in  the  subsequent  composition,  to 
construct  more  vigorous  stanzas,  I  should,  without 
scruple,  have  purposely  enfeebled  them,  so  as  not  to 
interfere  with  the  climacteric  effect. 

And  here  I  may  as  well  say  a  few  words  of  the 
versification.  My  first  object  (as  usual)  was 
originality.  The  extent  to  which  this  has  been  neg 
lected,  in  versification,  is  one  of  the  most  unaccount 
able  things  in  the  world.  Admitting  that  there  is  little 
possibility  of  variety  in  mere  rhythm,  it  is  still  clear 
that  the  possible  varieties  of  metre  and  stanza  are 
absolutely  infinite — and  yet,  for  centuries,  no  man,  in 
verse,  has  ever  done,  or  ever  seemed  to  think  of  doing, 
an  original  thing.  The  fact  is,  originality  (unless  in 
minds  of  very  unusual  force)  is  by  no  means  a  matter, 
as  some  suppose,  of  impulse  or  intuition.  In  general, 
to  be  found,  it  must  be  elaborately  sought,  and  al- 


THE  CRITIC  185 

though  a  positive  merit  of  the  highest  class,  demands 
in  its  attainment  less  of  invention  than  negation. 

Of  course,  I  pretend  to  no  originality  in  either  the 
rhythm  or  metre  of  the  "Raven."  The  former  is 
trochaic — the  latter  is  octameter  acatalectic,  alternat 
ing  with  heptameter  catalectic  repeated  in  the  refrain 
of  the  fifth  verse,  and  terminating  with  tetrameter 
catalectic.  Less  pedantically — the  feet  employed 
throughout  (trochees)  consist  of  a  long  syllable  fol 
lowed  by  a  short:  the  first  line  of  the  stanza  consists 
of  eight  of  these  feet — the  second  of  seven  and  a  half 
(in  effect  two-thirds) — the  third  of  eight — the  fourth 
of  seven  and  a  half — 'the  fifth  the  same — the  sixth 
three  and  a  half.  Now,  each  of  these  lines,  taken  in 
dividually,  has  been  employed  before,  and  what 
originality  the  "Raven"  has,  is  in  their  combination 
into  stanza;  nothing  even  remotely  approaching  this 
combination  has  ever  been  attempted.  The  effect  of 
this  originality  of  combination  is  aided  by  other  un 
usual,  and  some  altogether  novel  effects,  arising  from 
an  extension  of  the  application  of  the  principles  of 
rhyme  and  alliteration. 

The  next  point  to  be  considered  was  the  mode  of 
bringing  together  the  lover  and  the  Raven — and  the 
first  branch  of  this  consideration  was  the  locale.  For 
this  the  most  natural  suggestion  might  seem  to  be  a 
forest,  or  the  fields — but  it  has  always  appeared  to 
me  that  a  close  circumscription  of  space  is  absolutely 
necessary  to  the  effect  of  insulated  incident: — it  has 
the  force  of  a  frame  to  a  picture.  It  has  an  indisput 
able  moral  power  in  keeping  concentrated  the  atten 
tion,  and,  of  course,  must  not  be  confounded  with 
mere  unity  of  place. 


1 86  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

I  determined,  then,  to  place  the  lover  in  his  cham 
ber — in  a  chamber  rendered  sacred  to  him  by 
memories  of  her  who  had  frequented  it.  The  room  is 
represented  as  richly  furnished — this  in  mere  pursu 
ance  of  the  ideas  I  have  already  explained  on  the  sub 
ject  of  Beauty,  as  the  sole  true  poetical  thesis. 

The  locale  being  thus  determined,  I  had  now  to 
introduce  the  bird — and  the  thought  of  introducing 
him  through  the  window,  was  inevitable.  The  idea  of 
making  the  lover  suppose,  in  the  first  instance,  that 
the  flapping  of  the  wings  of  the  bird  against  the 
shutter,  is  a  "tapping"  at  the  door,  originated  in  a 
wish  to  increase,  by  prolonging,  the  reader's  curiosity, 
and  in  a  desire  to  admit  the  incidental  effect  arising 
from  the  lover's  throwing  open  the  door,  finding  all 
dark,  and  thence  adopting  the  half-fancy  that  it  was 
the  spirit  of  his  mistress  that  knocked. 

I  made  the  night  tempestuous,  first,  to  account  for 
the  Raven's  seeking  admission,  and  secondly,  for  the 
effect  of  contrast  with  the  (physical)  serenity  within 
the  chamber. 

I  made  the  bird  alight  on  the  bust  of  Pallas,  also 
for  the  effect  of  contrast  between  the  marble  and  the 
plumage — it  being  understood  that  the  bust  was  ab 
solutely  suggested  by  the  bird — the  bust  of  Pallas 
being  chosen,  first,  as  most  in  keeping  with  the  schol 
arship  of  the  lover,  and,  secondly,  for  the  sonorousness 
of  the  word,  Pallas,  itself. 

About  the  middle  of  the  poem,  also,  I  have  availed 
myself  of  the  force  of  contrast,  with  a  view  of  deepen 
ing  the  ultimate  impression.  For  example,  an  air  of 
the  fantastic — approaching  as  nearly  to  the  ludicrous 


THE  CRITIC  187 

as  was  admissible — is  given  to  the  Raven's  entrance. 
He  comes  in  "with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter." 

Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he — not  a  moment  stopped  or 

stayed  he, 
But  "with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber 

door. 

In  the  two  stanzas  which  follow,  the  design  is  more 
obviously  carried  out: — 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
"Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said,  "art 

sure  no  craven, 
Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Raven  wandering  from  the  nightly 

shore — 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plutonian 

shore !" 

Quoth  the  Raven  "Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fozvl  to  hear  discourse  so 

plainly, 

Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy  bore; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber 

door — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber 

door, 

With  such  name  as  "Nevermore." 

The  effect  of  the  denouement  being  thus  provided 
for,  I  immediately  drop  the  fantastic  for  a  tone  of  the 
most  profound  seriousness : — this  tone  commencing  in 
the  stanza  directly  following  the  one  last  quoted,  with 
the  line, 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  that  placid  bust,  spoke  only, 
etc. 

From  this  epoch  the  lover  no  longer  jests — no 
longer  sees  anything  even  of  the  fantastic  in  the 
Raven's  demeanor.  He  speaks  of  him  as  a  "grim, 


1 88  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous  bird  of  yore," 
and  feels  the  "fiery  eyes"  burning  into  his  "bosom's 
core."  This  revolution  of  thought,  or  fancy,  on  the 
lover's  part,  is  intended  to  induce  a  similar  one  on  the 
part  of  the  reader — to  bring  the  mind  into  a  proper 
frame  for  the  denouement — which  is  now  brought  about 
as  rapidly  and  as  directly  as  possible. 

With  the  denouement  proper — with  the  Raven's  re 
ply,  "Nevermore,"  to  the  lover's  final  demand  if  he 
shall  meet  his  mistress  in  another  world — the  poem,  in 
its  obvious  phase,  that  of  a  simple  narrative,  may  be 
said  to  have  its  completion.  So  far,  everything  is 
within  the  limits  of  the  accountable — of  the  real.  A 
raven,  having  learned  by  rote  the  single  word  "Never 
more,"  and  having  escaped  from  the  custody  of  its 
owner,  is  driven  at  midnight,  through  the  violence  of 
a  storm,  to  seek  admission  at  a  window  from  which  a 
light  still  gleams — the  chamber-window  of  a  student, 
occupied  half  in  poring  over  a  volume,  half  in  dream 
ing  of  a  beloved  mistress  deceased.  The  casement  be 
ing  thrown  open  at  the  fluttering  of  the  bird's  wings, 
the  bird  itself  perches  on  the  most  convenient  seat  out 
of  the  immediate  reach  of  the  student,  who,  amused  by 
the  incident  and  the  oddity  of  the  visitor's  demeanor, 
demands  of  it,  in  jest  and  without  looking  for  a  reply, 
its  name.  The  raven  addressed,  answers  with  its  cus 
tomary  word,  "Nevermore" — a  word  which  finds  im 
mediate  echo  in  the  melancholy  heart  of  the  student, 
who,  giving  utterance  aloud  to  certain  thoughts  sug 
gested  by  the  occasion,  is  again  startled  by  the  fowl's 
repetition  of  "Nevermore."  The  student  now  guesses 
the  state  of  the  case,  but  is  impelled,  as  I  have  before 
explained,  by  the  human  thirst  for  self-torture,  and  in 


THE  CRITIC  189 

part  by  superstition,  to  propound  such  queries  to  the 
bird  as  will  bring  him,  the  lover,  the  most  of  the  lux 
ury  of  sorrow,  through  the  anticipated  answer  "Never 
more."  With  the  indulgence,  to  the  utmost  extreme, 
of  this  self-torture,  the  narration,  in  what  I  have 
termed  its  first  or  obvious  phase,  has  a  natural  ter 
mination,  and  so  far  there  has  been  no  overstepping 
of  the  limits  of  the  real. 

But  in  subjects  so  handled,  however  skilfully,  or 
with  however  vivid  an  array  of  incident,  there  is  al 
ways  a  certain  hardness  or  nakedness,  which  repels  the 
artistical  eye.  Two  things  are  invariably  required — 
first,  some  amount  of  complexity,  or  more  properly, 
adaptation ;  and,  secondly,  some  amount  of  sugges- 
tiveness — some  undercurrent,  however  indefinite,  of 
meaning.  It  is  this  latter,  in  especial,  which  imparts 
to  a  work  of  art  so  much  of  that  richness  (to  borrow 
from  colloquy  a  forcible  term)  which  we  are  too  fond 
of  confounding  with  the  ideal.  It  is  the  excess  of  the 
suggested  meaning — it  is  the  rendering  this  the  upper 
instead  of  the  undercurrent  of  the  theme — which  turns 
into  prose  (and  that  of  the  very  flattest  kind)  the  so- 
called  poetry  of  the  so-called  transcendentalists. 

Holding  these  opinions,  I  added  the  two  conclud 
ing  stanzas  of  the  poem — their  suggestiveness  being 
thus  made  to  pervade  all  the  narrative  which  has  pre 
ceded  them.  The  undercurrent  of  meaning  is  ren 
dered  first  apparent  in  the  lines — 

"Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from 
off  my  door !" 

Quoth  the  Raven  "Nevermore !" 

It  will  be  observed  that  the  words,  "from  out  my 
heart,"  involve  the  first  metaphorical  expression  in 


190  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

the  poem.  They,  with  the  answer,  "Nevermore,"  dis 
pose  the  mind  to  seek  a  moral  in  all  that  has  been 
previously  narrated.  The  reader  begins  now  to  re 
gard  the  Raven  as  emblematical — but  it  is  not  until 
the  very  last  line  of  the  very  last  stanza,  that  the 
intention  of  making  him  emblematical  of  Mournful 
and  Never-ending  Remembrance  is  permitted  dis 
tinctly  to  be  seen : 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting, 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door; 
And   his   eyes   have  all   the  seeming  of   a   demon's   that   is 

dreaming, 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on 

the  floor; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the 

floor 

Shall  be  lifted — nevermore. 

A  LONG  POEM  A  CONTRADICTION  IN  TERMS 

[From  The  Poetic  Principle,  first  published  in  Sar- 
tain's  Union  Magazine,  October,  1850,  but  delivered 
in  public  addresses  as  early  as  1848  and  embodied  in 
still  earlier  literary  criticisms.  Bryant,  by  the  way, 
adopted  or  at  least  held  and  practised  Poe's  doctrine 
of  the  short  poem.  "It  seems  to  me,"  he  says  in  the 
Introduction  to  his  Library  of  Poetry  and  Song 
(1871),  "that  it  is  only  poems  of  a  moderate  length,  or 
else  portions  of  the  greater  work  to  which  I  refer,  that 
produce  the  effect  upon  the  mind  and  heart  which 
make  the  charm  of  this  kind  of  writing."  Of  Bryant's 
one  hundred  and  sixty  poems  the  average  length  is 
seventy-five  lines.] 

In  speaking  of  the  Poetic  Principle,  I  have  no  de 
sign  to  be  either  thorough,  or  profound.  While  dis 
cussing,  very  much  at  random,  the  essentiality  of  what 


THE  CRITIC  191 

we  call  Poetry,  my  principal  purpose  will  be  to  cite  for 
consideration,  some  few  of  those  minor  English  or 
American  poems  which  best  suit  my  own  taste,  or 
which,  upon  my  own  fancy,  have  left  the  most  definite 
impression.  By  "minor  poems"  I  mean,  of  course, 
poems  of  little  length.  And  here,  in  the  beginning, 
permit  me  to  say  a  few  words  in  regard  to  a  somewhat 
peculiar  principle,  which,  whether  rightfully  or  wrong 
fully,  has  always  had  its  influence  in  my  own  critical 
estimate  of  the  poem.  I  hold  that  a  long  poem  does 
not  exist.  I  maintain  that  the  phrase,  "a  long  poem," 
is  simply  a  flat  contradiction  in  terms. 

I  need  scarcely  observe  that  a  poem  deserves  its 
title  only  inasmuch  as  it  excites,  by  elevating  the  soul. 
The  value  of  the  poem  is  in  the  ratio  of  this  elevatirig 
excitement.  But  all  excitements  are,  through  a  psy- 
chal  necessity,  transient.  That  degree  of  excitement 
which  would  entitle  a  poem  to  be  so  called  at  all,  can 
not  be  sustained  throughout  a  composition  of  any 
great  length.  After  the  lapse  of  half  an  hour,  at  the 
very  utmost,  it  flags — fails — a  revulsion  ensues — and 
then  the  poem  is,  in  effect,  and  in  fact,  no  longer  such. 

There  are,  no  doubt,  many  who  have  found  diffi 
culty  in  reconciling  the  critical  dictum  that  the  "Para 
dise  Lost"  is  to  be  devoutly  admired  throughout,  with 
the  absolute  impossibility  of  maintaining  for  it,  during 
perusal,  the  amount  of  enthusiasm  which  that  critical 
dictum  would  demand.  This  great  work,  in  fact,  is  to 
be  regarded  as  poetical,  only  when,  losing  sight  of  that 
vital  requisite  in  all  works  of  Art,  Unity,  we  view  it 
merely  as  a  series  of  minor  poems.  If,  to  preserve  its 
Unity — its  totality  of  effect  or  impression — we  read  it 
(as  would  be  necessary)  at  a  single  sitting,  the  result 


193  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

is  but  a  constant  alternation  of  excitement  and  depres 
sion.  After  a  passage  of  what  we  feel  to  be  true 
poetry,  there  follows,  inevitably,  a  passage  of  platitude 
which  no  critical  pre-judgment  can  force  us  to  admire ; 
but  if,  upon  completing  the  work,  we  read  it  again, 
omitting  the  first  book — that  is  to  say,  commencing 
with  the  second — we  shall  be  surprised  at  now  finding 
that  admirable  which  we  before  condemned — that 
damnable  which  we  had  previously  so  much  admired. 
It  follows  from  all  this  that  the  ultimate,  aggregate,  or 
absolute  effect  of  even  the  best  epic  under  the  sun,  is  a 
nullity : — and  this  is  precisely  the  fact. 

In  regard  to  the  "Iliad,"  we  have,  if  not  positive 
proof,  at  least  very  good  reason  for  believing  it  in 
tended  as  a  series  of  lyrics:  but,  granting  the  epic 
intention,  I  can  say  only  that  the  work  is  based  in  an 
imperfect  sense  of  art.  The  modern  epic  is,  of  the  sup 
posititious  ancient  model,  but  an  inconsiderate  and 
blind  imitation.  But  the  day  of  these  artistic  anom 
alies  is  over.  If,  at  any  time,  any  very  long  poem 
were  popular  in  reality,  which  I  doubt,  it  is  at  least 
clear  that  no  very  long  poem  will  ever  be  popular 
again. 

That  the  extent  of  a  poetical  work  is,  ceteris  part- 
bus,  the  measure  of  its  merit,  seems  undoubtedly,  when 
we  thus  state  it,  a  proposition  sufficiently  absurd — yet 
we  are  indebted  for  it  to  the  Quarterly  Reviews. 
Surely  there  can  be  nothing  in  mere  size,  abstractly 
considered — there  can  be  nothing  in  mere  bulk,  so  far 
as  a  volume  is  concerned,  which  has  so  continuously 
elicited  admiration  from  these  saturnine  pamphlets! 
A  mountain,  to  be  sure,  by  the  mere  sentijnent  of  phy 
sical  magnitude  which  it  conveys,  does  impress  us 


THE  CRITIC  193 

with  a  sense  of  the  sublime — but  no  inan  is  impressed 
after  this  fashion  by  the  material  grandeur  of  even 
"The  Columbiad."  Even  the  Quarterlies  have  not  in 
structed  us  to  be  so  impressed  by  it.  As  yet,  they  have 
not  insisted  on  our  estimating  Lamartine  by  the  cubic 
foot,  or  Pollok  by  the  pound— but  what  else  are  we  to 
infer  from  their  continual  prating  about  "sustained  ef 
fort?"  If,  by  "sustained  effort,"  any  little  gentleman 
has  accomplished  an  epic,  let  us  frankly  commend  him 
for  the  effort — if  this  indeed  be  a  thing  commendable 
— but  let  us  forbear  praising  the  epic  on  the  effort's 
account.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  common  sense,  in  the 
time  to  come,  will  prefer  deciding  upon  a  work  of  art, 
rather  by  the  impression  it  makes,  by  the  effect  it  pro 
duces,  than  by  the  time  it  took  to  impress  the  effect, 
or  by  the  amount  of  "sustained  effort"  which  had  been 
found  necessary  in  effecting  the  impression.  The  fact 
is,  that  perseverance  is  one  thing,  and  genius  quite 
another;  nor  can  all  the  Quarterlies  in  Christendom 
confound  them,  By  and  by,  this  proposition,  with 
many  which  I  have  been  just  urging,  will  be  received 
as  self-evident.  In  the  meantime,  by  being  generally 
condemned  as  falsities,  they  will  not  be  essentially 
damaged  as  truths. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  clear  that  a  poem  may  bei 
improperly  brief.  Undue  brevity  degenerates  into 
mere  epigrammatism.  A  very  short  poem,  while  now 
and  then  producing  a  brilliant  or  vivid,  never  produces 
a  profound  or  enduring  effect.  There  must  be  the 
steady  pressing  down  of  the  stamp  upon  the  wax. 
De  Beranger  has  wrought  innumerable  things,  pun 
gent  and  spirit-stirring ;  but,  in  general,  they  have  been 
too  imponderous  to  stamp  themselves  deeply  into  the 


194  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

public  attention;  and  thus,  as  so  many  feathers  of 
fancy,  have  been  blown  aloft  only  to  be  whistled  down 
the  wind. 

THE  HERESY  OF  THE  DIDACTIC 

[From  The  Poetic  Principle.  See  the  preceding  ex 
tract.  It  must  be  understood  that  Poe  uses  "truth"  in 
its  moral  or  prudential  or  purely  factual  sense.  No 
poem  deserves  the  name  that  is  not  founded  and 
arched  in  truth.  But  what  kind  of  truth?  Poe  an- 
s\vers  in  Eureka:  "The  sense  of  the  symmetrical  is  an 
instinct  which  may  be  depended  upon  with  an  almost 
blindfold  reliance.  It  is  the  poetical  essence  of  the 
Universe — of  the  Universe  which,  in  the  supremeness 
of  its  symmetry,  is  but  the  most  sublime  of  poems.' 
Now  symmetry  and  consistency  are  convertible  terms : 
— thus  Poetry  and  Truth  are  one."  See  also  the  first 
paragraph  of  the  third  extract  from  The  Poetic  Prin 
ciple,  page  200.] 

While  the  epic  mania — while  the  idea  that,  to  merit 
in  poetry,  prolixity  is  indispensable — has,  for  some 
years  past,  been  gradually  dying  out  of  the  public 
mind,  by  mere  dint  of  its  own  absurdity — we  find  it 
succeeded  by  a  heresy  too  palpably  false  to  be  long  tol 
erated,  but  one  which,  in  the  brief  period  it  has  already 
endured,  may  be  said  to  have  accomplished  more  in 
the  corruption  of  our  Poetical  Literature  than  all  its 
other  enemies  combined.  I  allude  to  the  heresy  of 
The  Didactic.  It  has  been  assumed,  tacitly  and  avow 
edly,  directly  and  indirectly,  that  the  ultimate  object  of 
all  Poetry  is  Truth.  Every  poem,  it  is  said,  should  in 
culcate  a  moral ;  and  by  this  moral  is  the  poetical  merit 


THE  CRITIC  195 

of  the  work  to  be  adjudged.  We  Americans,  espec 
ially,  have  patronized  this  happy  idea ;  and  we  Boston- 
ians,  very  especially,  have  developed  it  in  full.  We 
have  taken  it  into  our  heads  that  to  write  a  poem  sim 
ply  for  the  poem's  sake,  and  to  acknowledge  such  to 
have  been  our  design,  would  be  to  confess  ourselves 
radically  wanting  in  the  true  Poetic  dignity  and  force : 
— but  the  simple  fact  is,  that,  would  we  but  permit  our 
selves  to  look  into  our  own  souls,  we  should  immedi 
ately  there  discover  that  under  the  sun  there  neither 
exists  nor  can  exist  any  work  more  thoroughly  digni 
fied — more  supremely  noble  than  this  very  poem — 
this  poem  per  sc — this  poem  wrhich  is  a  poem  and  noth 
ing  more — this  poem  written  solely  for  the  poem's 
sake. 

With  as  deep  a  reverence  for  the  True  as  ever  in 
spired  the  bosom  of  man,  I  would,  nevertheless,  limit, 
in  some  measure,  its  modes  of  inculcation.  I  would 
limit  to  enforce  them.  I  would  not  enfeeble  them  by 
dissipation.  The  demands  of  Truth  are  severe.  She 
has  no  sympathy  with  the  myrtles.  All  that  which  is 
so  indispensable  in  Song,  is  precisely  all  that  with 
which  she  has  nothing  whatever  to  do.  It  is  but  mak 
ing  her  a  flaunting  paradox,  to  wreathe  her  in  gems 
and  flowers.  In  enforcing  a  truth,  we  need  severity 
rather  than  efflorescence  of  language.  We  must  be 
simple,  precise,  terse.  We  must  be  cool,  calm,  unim- 
passioned.  In  a  word,  we  must  be  in  that  mood 
which,  as  nearly  as  possible,  is  the  exact  converse  o£ 
the  poetical.  He  must  be  blind,  indeed,  who  does  not 
perceive  the  radical  and  chasmal  differences  between 
the  truthful  and  the  poetical  modes  of  inculcation.  He 
must  be  theory-mad  beyond  redemption  who,  in  spite 


196  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

of  these  differences,  shall  still  persist  in  attempting  to 
reconcile  the  obstinate  oils  and  waters  of  Poetry  and 
Truth. 

Dividing  the  world  of  mind  into  its  three  most 
immediately  obvious  distinctions,  we  have  the  Pure 
Intellect,  Taste,  and  the  Moral  Sense.  I  place  Taste 
in  the  middle,  because  it  is  just  this  position,  which,  in 
the  mind,  it  occupies.  It  holds  intimate  relations  with 
either  extreme ;  but  from  the  Moral  Sense  is  separated 
by  so  faint  a  difference  that  Aristotle  has  not  hesitated 
to  place  some  of  its  operations  among  the  virtues  them 
selves.  Nevertheless,  we  find  the  offices  of  the  trio 
marked  with  a  sufficient  distinction.  Just  as  the  In 
tellect  concerns  itself  with  Truth,  so  Taste  informs  us 
of  the  Beautiful  while  the  Moral  Sense  is  regardful  of 
Duty.  Of  this  latter,  while  Conscience  teaches  the  ob 
ligation,  and  Reason  the  expediency,  Taste  contents 
herself  with  displaying  the  charms: — waging  war 
upon  Vice  solely  on  the  ground  of  her  deformity — her 
disproportion — her  animosity  to  the  fitting,  to  the  ap 
propriate,  to  the  harmonious — in  a  word,  to  Beauty. 

An  immortal  instinct,  deep  within  the  spirit  of  man, 
is  thus,  plainly,  a  sense  of  the  Beautiful.  This  it  is 
which  administers  to  his  delight  in  the  manifold  forms, 
and  sounds,  and  odors,  and  sentiments  amid  which  he 
exists.  And  just  as  the  lily  is  repeated  in  the  lake,  or 
the  eyes  of  Amaryllis  in  the  mirror,  so  is  the  mere  oral 
or  written  repetition  of  these  forms,  and  sounds,  and 
colors,  and  odors,  and  sentiments,  a  duplicate  source 
of  delight.  But  this  mere  repetition  is  not  poetry. 
He  who  shall  simply  sing,  with  however  glowing  en 
thusiasm,  or  with  however  vivid  a  truth  of  description, 
of  the  sights,  and  sounds,  and  odors,  and  colors,  and 


THE  CRITIC  197 

sentiments,  which  greet  him  in  common  with  all  man 
kind — he,  I  say,  has  yet  failed  to  prove  his  divine  title. 
There  is  still  a  something  in  the  distance  which  he  has 
been  unable  to  attain.  We  have  still  a  thirst  un 
quenchable,  to  allay  which  he  has  not  shown  us  the 
crystal  springs.  This  thirst  belongs  to  the  immor 
tality  of  Man.  It  is  at  once  a  consequence  and  an  in 
dication  of  his  perennial  existence.  It  is  the  desire  of 
the  moth  for  the  star.  It  is  no  mere  appreciation  of 
the  Beauty  before  us — but  a  wild  effort  to  reach  the 
Beauty  above.  Inspired  by  an  ecstatic  pre-science  of 
the  glories  beyond  the  grave,  we  struggle,  by  multi 
form  combinations  among  the  things  and  thoughts  of 
Time,  to  attain  a  portion  of  that  Loveliness  whose  very 
elements,  perhaps,  appertain  to  eternity  alone.  And 
thus  when  by  Poetry — or  when  by  Music,  the  most 
entrancing  of  the  Poetic  moods — we  find  ourselves 
melted  into  tears — we  weep  then — not  as  the  Abbate 
Gravina  supposes — through  excess  of  pleasure,  but 
through  a  certain,  petulant,  impatient  sorrow  at  our 
inability  to  grasp  now,  wholly,  here  on  earth,  at  once 
and  for  ever,  those  divine  and  rapturous  joys,  of 
which  through  the  poem,  or  through  the  music,  we  at 
tain  to  but  brief  and  indeterminate  glimpses. 

The  struggle  to  apprehend  the  supernal  Loveliness 
— this  struggle,  on  the  part  of  souls  fittingly  consti 
tuted — has  given  to  the  world  all  that  which  it  (the 
world)  has  ever  been  enabled  at  once  to  understand 
and  to  feel  as  poetic. 

The  Poetic  Sentiment,  of  course,  may  develop  itself 
in  various  modes — in  Painting,  in  Sculpture,  in  Archi 
tecture,  in  the  Dance — very  especially  in  Music — and 
very  peculiarly,  and  with  a  wide  field,  in  the  compo- 


198  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

sition  of  the  Landscape  Garden.  Our  present  theme, 
however,  has  regard  only  to  its  manifestation  in 
words.  And  here  let  me  speak  briefly  on  the  topic  of 
rhythm.  Contenting  myself  with  the  certainty  that 
Music,  in  its  various  modes  of  metre,  rhythm,  and 
rhyme,  is  of  so  vast  a  moment  in  Poetry  as  never  to  be 
wisely  rejected — is  so  vitally  important  an  adjunct, 
that  he  is  simply  silly  who  declines  its  assistance,  I  will 
not  now  pause  to  maintain  its  absolute  essentiality.  It 
is  in  Music,  perhaps,  that  the  soul  most  nearly  attains 
the  great  end  for  which,  when  inspired  by  the  Poetic 
Sentiment,  it  struggles — the  creation  of  supernal 
Beauty.  It  may  be,  indeed,  that  here  this  sublime  end 
is,  now  and  then,  attained  in  fact.  We  are  often  made 
to  feel,  with  a  shivering  delight,  that  from  an  earthly 
harp  are  stricken  notes  which  cannot  have  been  unfa 
miliar  to  the  angels.  And  thus  there  can  be  little 
doubt  that  in  the  union,  of  Poetry  with  Music  in  its 
popular  sense,  we  shall  find  the  widest  field  for  the 
Poetic  development.  The  old  Bards  and  Minnesing 
ers  had  advantages  which  we  do  not  possess — and 
Thomas  Moore,  singing  his  own  songs,  was,  in  the 
most  legitimate  manner,  perfecting  them  as  poems. 

To  recapitulate,  then: — I  would  define,  in  brief, 
the  Poetry  of  words  as  The  Rhythmical  Creation  of 
Beauty.  Its  sole  arbiter  is  Taste.  With  the  Intellect 
or  with  the  Conscience,  it  has  only  collateral  relations. 
Unless  incidentally,  it  has  no  concern  whatever  either 
with  Duty  or  with  Truth. 

A  few  words,  however,  in  explanation.  That 
pleasure  which  is  at  once  the  most  pure,  the  most  ele 
vating,  and  the  most  intense,  is  derived,  I  maintain, 
from  the  contemplation  of  the  Beautiful.  In  the  con- 


THE  CRITIC  199 

templation  of  Beauty  we  alone  find  it  possible  to  at 
tain  that  pleasurable  elevation,  or  excitement,  of  the 
soul,  which  we  recognize  as  the  Poetic  Sentiment,  and 
which  is  so  easily  distinguished  from  Truth,  which  is 
the  satisfaction  of  the  Reason,  or  from  Passion,  which 
is  the  excitement  of  the  heart.  1  make  Beauty,  there 
fore — using  the  word  as  inclusive  of  the  sublime — I 
make  Beauty  the  province  of  the  poem,  simply  because 
it  is  an  obvious  rule  of  Art  that  effects  should  be  made 
to  spring  as  directly  as  possible  from  their  causes : — 
no  one  as  yet  having  been  weak  enough  to  deny  that 
the  peculiar  elevation  in  question  is  at  least  most 
readily  attainable  in  the  poem.  It  by  no  means  fol 
lows,  however,  that  the  incitements  of  Passion,  or  the 
precepts  of  Duty,  or  even  the  lessons  of  Truth,  may 
not  be  introduced  into  a  poem,  and  with  advantage; 
for  they  may  subserve,  incidentally,  in  various  ways, 
the  general  purposes  of  the  work : — but  the  true  artist 
will  always  contrive  to  tone  them  down  in  proper  sub 
jection  to  that  Beauty  which  is  the  atmosphere  and  the 
real  essence  of  the  poem. 

POETICAL   THEMES 

[From  The  Poetic  Principle.  See  the  two  preceding 
extracts.  Note  in  the  last  paragraph  how  Poe  analyzes 
beauty  into  the  five-fold  appeal  of  sight,  sound,  odor, 
character,  and  woman.  The  two  paragraphs  form  a 
model  of  effective  conclusion.  Both  are  recapitula 
tory;  but  the  first  is  abstract — the  second  concrete. 
The  second,  moreover,  not  only  recapitulates  and  ex 
pands,  but  enforces  the  main  thesis  by  an  appeal  that 
is  itself  a  culminating  example  of  the  beauty  and 
psychic  elevation  with  which  the  essay  deals.] 


200  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Thus,  although  in  a  very  cursory  and  imperfect 
manner,  I  have  endeavored  to  convey  to  you  my  con 
ception  of  the  Poetic  Principle.  It  has  been  my  pur 
pose  to  suggest  that,  while  this  Principle  itself  is, 
strictly  and  simply,  the  Human  Aspiration  for  Super 
nal  Beauty,  the  manifestation  of  the  Principle  is 
always  found  in  an  elevating  excitement  of  the  Soul — 
quite  independent  of  that  passion  which  is  the  intox 
ication  of  the  Heart — or  of  that  Truth  which  is  the 
satisfaction  of  the  Reason.  For,  in  regard  to  Passion, 
alas !  its  tendency  is  to  degrade,  rather  than  to  elevate 
the  Soul.  Love,  on  the  contrary — Love — the  true,  the 
divine  Eros — the  Uranian,  as  distinguished  from  the 
Dionsean  Venus — is  unquestionably  the  purest  and 
truest  of  all  poetical  themes.  And  in  regard  to  Truth 
— if,  to  be  sure,  through  the  attainment  of  a  truth,  we 
are  led  to  perceive  a  harmony  where  none  was  appar 
ent  before,  we  experience,  at  once,  the  true  poetical 
effect — but  this  effect  is  referable  to  the  harmony 
alone,  and  not  in  the  least  degree  to  the  truth  which 
merely  served  to  render  the  harmony  manifest. 

We  shall  reach,  however,  more  immediately  a  dis 
tinct  conception  of  what  the  true  Poetry  is,  by  mere 
reference  to  a  few  of  the  simple  elements  which  induce 
in  the  Poet  himself  the  true  poetical  effect.  He  rec 
ognizes  the  ambrosia  which  nourishes  his  soul,  in  the 
bright  orbs  that  shine  in  Heaven — in  the  volutes  of 
the  flower — in  the  clustering  of  low  shrubberies — in 
the  waving  of  the  grain-fields — in  the  slanting  of  tall, 
Eastern  trees — in  the  blue  distance  of  mountains — in 
the  grouping  of  clouds — in  the  twinkling  of  half- 
hidden  brooks — in  the  gleaming  of  silver  rivers — in 
the  repose  of  sequestered  lakes — in  the  star-mirroring 


THE  CRITIC  201 

depths  of  lonely  wells.  He  perceives  it  in  the  songs  of 
birds — in  the  harp  of  sEolus — in  the  sighing  of  the 
night-wind — in  the  repining  voice  of  the  forest — in 
the  surf  that  complains  to  the  shore — in  the  fresh 
breath  of  the  woods — in  the  scent  of  the  violet — in  the 
voluptuous  perfume  of  the  hyacinth — in  the  suggestive 
odor  that  comes  to  him,  at  eventide,  from  far-distant, 
undiscovered  islands,  over  dim  oceans,  illimitable  and 
unexplored.  He  owns  it  in  all  noble  thoughts — in 
all  unworldly  motives — in  all  holy  impulses — in  all 
chivalrous,  generous,  and  self-sacrificing  deeds.  He 
feels  it  in  the  beauty  of  woman — in  the  grace  of  her 
step — in  the  lustre  of  her  eye — in  the  melody  of  her 
voice — in  her  soft  laughter — in  her  sigh — in  the  har 
mony  of  the  rustling  of  her  robes.  He  deeply  feels 
it  in  her  winning  endearments — in  her  burning  en 
thusiasms — in  her  gentle  charities — in  her  meek  and 
devotional  endurances — but  above  all — ah,  far  above 
all  — he  kneels  to  it — he  worships  it  in  the  faith,  in  the 
purity,  in  the  strength,  in  the  altogether  divine  ma 
jesty — of  her  love. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  POET 


IN  Poe's  Philosophy  of  Composition  he  barely 
mentions  two  details  of  technique  that  are  as  central 
in  his  art  as, any  two  that  he  discusses.  You  remem 
ber  that  the  lover  in  The  Raven  first  hears  a  rapping, 
that  he  thinks  it  is  at  the  door,  that  he  throws  open 
the  door,  that  he  then  thinks  the  rapping  is  at  his 
window,  and  that  only  in  the  seventh  stanza  is  the 
mystery  solved  and  the  Raven  admitted.  This  delay, 
says  Poe,  "originated  in  a  wish  to  increase,  by  pro 
longing,  the  reader's  curiosity."  He  might  have  added 
that  in  every  story  that  he  had  written  the  same 
psychology  is  in  evidence.  A  mystery  is  about  to  be 
cleared  up,  a  discovery  is  about  to  be  made,  a  crime 
is  about  to  be  committed,  but  the  final  happening  is 
preceded  by  a  skilfully  laid  series  of  approximations. 
Not  only  does  Poe  thus  "increase,  by  prolonging,  the 
reader's  curiosity ;"  he  so  intensifies  the  reader's  sus 
pense  that  the  ultimate  happening  is  not  only  a  satis 
faction  to  the  intellect  but  a  balm  to  the  feelings.  In 
A  Descent  Into  the  Maelstrom  Poe  says:  "We 
careered  round  and  round  for  perhaps  an  hour,  flying 
rather  than  floating,  getting  gradually  more  and  more 
into  the  middle  of  the  surge,  and  then  nearer  and 
nearer  to  its  horrible  inner  edge."  Poe  is  the  artist  of 
the  proximate  on  its  way  to  the  ultimate. 

202 


THE  POET  203 

He  is  also  and  equally  the  artist  of  repetition  in 
the  service  of  melody  and  rhythm,  but  the  subject  is 
almost  ignored  in  The  Philosophy  of  Composition  ex 
cept  in  the  brief  references  made  to  the  refrain.  In 
the  selection  that  we  have  called  Repetition  An  Aid  to 
Quaintness  Poe  at  least  makes  it  clear  that  his  own 
employment  of  repetition  must  have  been  conscious 
and  studied.  As  early  as  1827  he  published  a  Song 
which  begins, 

I  saw  thee  on  thy  bridal  day, 
When  a  burning  blush  came  o'er  thee, 

Though  happiness  around  thee  lay, 
The  world  all  love  before  thee, 

and  ends, 

Who  saw  thee  on  that  bridal  day, 

When  that  deep  blush  would  come  o'er  thee, 
Though  happiness  around  thee  lay, 

The  world  all  love  before  thee. 

But  Poe's  distinctive  employment  of  repetition,  the 
use  of  it  which  he  has  made  peculiarly  his  own,  is 
exemplified  neither  in  the  refrain  nor  in  the  recurrence 
of  an  initial  stanza  in  the  terminal  stanza.  There  are 
few  lyric  poets  of  any  time  who  have  not  freely  em 
ployed  both  of  these  devices.  Nor  does  Poe's  insist 
ence  on  "quaintness"  make  his  own  practice  any  the 
clearer.  No  one  has  ever  found  quaintness  a  marked 
characteristic  of  Poe's  poetry,  though  repetition  is 
plainly  the  chief  characteristic  of  the  form  of  his 
verse.  I  can  detect  no  quaintness  in  these  wonderful 
lines : 

To  the  glory  that  was  Greece, 

And  the  grandeur  that  was   Rome, 

or  in  the  magic  of  this  stanza : 


204  EDGAR  ALLAN  TOE 

And  all  my  days  are  trances, 

And  all  my  nightly  dreams 
Are  where  thy  grey  eye  glances, 

And  where  thy  footstep  gleams—^ 
In  what  ethereal  dances, 

By  what  eternal  streams. 

I  find  instead  a  parallelism  of  structure  which  is  a 
kind  of  repetition,  a  kind  that  Poe  summoned  to  his 
service  whenever  harmony  demanded  it. 

But  repetition  of  structural  units  is  not  the  distinc 
tive  note  of  Poe's  verse.  Structural  repetition  is  a 
form  of  balanced  and  ordered  utterance  that  is  as  old 
as  song  itself.  The  ultimate  Poe  differential  is  seen 
not  in  the  repetition  of  clausal  or  phrasal  patterns  but 
In  the  repetition  of  the  same  or  nearly  the  same 
thought  in  the  same  or  nearly  the  same  words.  These 
lines  are  illustrations,  but  there  is  no  quaintness  in 
them: 

For  no  ripples  curl,  alas ! 

Along  that  wilderness  of  glass — 

No  swellings  tell  that  winds  may  be 

Upon  some  far-off  happier  sea — 

No  heavings  hint  that  winds  have  been 

On  seas  less  hideously  serene. 

Till  the  fair  and  gentle  Eulalie  became  my  blushing  bride-y 
Till  the  yellow-haired  young  Eulalie  became  my  smiling  bride. 

As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
"  Tis    some   visitor,"    I    muttered,   "tapping   at   my   chamber 
door — 

Only  this  and  nothing  more." 

The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober; 
The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere — 
The  leaves  they  were  withering  and  sere. 

It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 

In  the  misty  mid  region  of  Weir — 
It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 

In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 


THE  POET  205 

Whatever  the  effect  aimed  at,  the  effect  actually 
produced  is  that  of  a  subtler  melody,  a  richer  har 
mony,  a  more  centralized  rhythm.  Repetition  in  Poe's 
hands  is  not  a  means  of  emphasizing  thought ;  it  is  a 
means  rather  of  lulling  thought  asleep  to  music. 
Crooning  takes  the  place  of  creating.  The  thought  as 
thought  seems  to  pause,  the  repetition  throbbing  on 
like  the  accompaniment  to  a  song  heard  between  the 
pauses  of  the  singer.  Unity  of  mood,  totality  of  ef 
fect,  a  dreamy  sort  of  "indefinitiveness,"  wrought  out 
by  means  perfectly  definite  and  adapted, — these  con 
stitute  the  Poe  differential.  Others  had  used  the 
same  sort  of  repetition  but  not  as  Poe  used  it.  With 
him  it  was  less  an  occasional  artifice  than  an  habitual 
art. 

After  all,  however,  repetition  is  of  the  very  essence 
of  rhythm  and  harmony.  It  is  not  an  eddy  in  the  cur 
rent;  it  is  the  current  itself  deepened  and  less  ob 
structed.  It  is  not  something  added  from  without;  it 
is  an  enlargement  and  enrichment  from  within.  All 
rhythm  is  repetition.  In  poetry  there  is  first  the  re 
currence  of  definitely  numbered  and  definitely  ordered 
feet,  then  of  lines,  then  of  terminal  or  interior  rimes, 
till  the  stanza,  a  symphony  of  antiphonal  repetitions, 
emerges  complete.  Then  the  march  begins,  stanza  fol 
lowing  stanza,  line-length  playing  to  line-length,  rime 
answering  to  rime,  and  perhaps  a  terminal  refrain 
summarizing  and  projecting  the  melody  of  the  whole. 
But  to  Poe's  ear  this  was  not  enough.  He  diffused 
other  repetitions  through  his  stanzas,  and  these  repeti 
tions  not  only  made  each  stanza  a  more  musical  unit 
in  itself  but  linked  stanza  to  stanza  in  an  unbroken 
strain  of  marching  music  unheard  till  then  but  heard 


206  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

continuously  since  then.  "Poe  has  proved  himself," 
says  Gosse,  "to  be  the  Piper  of  Hamelin  to  all  later 
English  poets.  From  Tennyson  to  Austin  Dobson 
there  is  hardly  one  whose  verse  music  does  not  show 
traces  of  Poe's  influence."  Saintsbury  calls  him  "the 
greatest  master  of  original  prosodic  effects  that  the 
United  States  has  produced."  No  extraneous  element 
was  added,  however,  rhythmic  repetition  being  only  a 
continuation  and  multiplication  of  the  central  prin 
ciple  of  verse  in  all  languages.  Poe  did  not  manufac 
ture  a  new  artifice ;  he  discovered  and  released  an  old 
resource. 

Where  did  he  get  the  suggestion  for  this  kind  of 
repetition?  Not  from  Coleridge,  not  from  any  author 
or  authors,  but  more  probably  from  the  ballad.  The 
ballad  is  the  product  of  communal  composition  and  its 
distinctive  formal  characteristic  is  repetition.  No 
other  type  of  literature,  ancient  or  modern,  approaches 
the  old  English  and  Scottish  folk-song  in  the  consist 
ent  and  effective  use  of  repetition  not  only  as  a  binde- 
tnittel  within  the  stanza  but  as  a  pontoon  from  stanza 
to  stanza.  Poe's  best  known  poems,  Goethe's  Erl- 
kdnig,  Burger's  Lenore,  Coleridge's  Ancient  Mariner, 
and  Longfellow's  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus  belong  to 
gether.  The  same  kind  of  repetition  is  employed  in 
each,  the  same  tone  gives  unity  to  each,  the  same  air 
of  mystery  broods  about  each,  and  the  same  effect, 
though  not  to  the  same  degree,  is  produced  by  each. 
They  are  all  ballads  and  they  all  hark  back  to  the  ballad 
revival  signalized  by  the  appearance,  in  I775»  °^ 
Bishop  Percy's  Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry. 
But  more  of  the  three  hundred  and  five  English  and 
Scottish  ballads  have  been  found  surviving  by  oral 


THE  POET  207 

tradition  in  Virginia  than  in  any  other  state.  And  it 
is  not  improbable  that  Poe  heard  some  of  these  bal 
lads  sung  during  his  more  impressionable  years  in 
Richmond,  and  in  Albemarle  County,  for  they  are  still 
sung  by  white  and  black,  by  old  and  young,  and  with 
all  the  old  haunting  refrains  and  reduplicate  repeti 
tions  that  make  them  unforgettable  when  once  heard. 

But  if  he  did  not  hear  them  sung,  he  at  least  knew 
them  from  books  and  from  the  imitations  that  were 
built  upon  them  or  woven  around  them.  The  only 
other  kind  of  song  that  shares  with  the  ballad  the  re 
sources  of  multiform  repetition  is  the  religious  folk 
song  of  the  negro  as  sung  on  the  plantations,  in  the 
homes,  and  in  the  tobacco  factories  of  the  South.  A 
southerner  can  hardly  help  believing  that  the  croon 
ing  lullabies,  the  plantation  melodies,  the  labor  songs 
of  the  negro  slaves  were  at  least  subsidiary  sources  of 
Poe's  lyrical  technique.  In  matter  and  manner,  in 
the  waning  of  thought  and  the  correspondent  waxing 
of  music,  in  the  willingness  of  each  sentence  to  merge 
its  individuality  into  the  larger  life  of  the  stanza  and 
the  self-sacrifice  of  the  stanza  in  behalf  of  a  still  larger 
and  more  exigent  totality,  the  resemblance  between 
the  two  is  insistently  close.  But  whatever  the  source, 
Poe's  poems  are  not  to  be  construed  as  isolated  and 
unrelated  products.  They  are  ballads  in  form,  in 
spirit,  and  in  effect,  though  the  form  has  been  diversi 
fied,  the  spirit  etherealized,  and  the  effect  heightened. 
To  know  them,  the  best  avenue  of  approach  is  the  bal 
lad  ;  and  to  enrich  your  knowledge  of  the  ballad,  the 
best  angle  of  retrospect  is  the  poetry  of  Poe. 

Another  problem  relates  not  to  the  form  or  source 
of  Poe's  verse  but  to  the  themes  that  he  elected  to 


208  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

treat.  Are  his  poems  consistent  exemplars  of  the 
beauty  which,  as  a  critic,  Poe  held  to  be  the  only  true 
goal  of  the  poet  ?  Woodberry,  speaking  of  our  greater 
writers,  says:1  "They  were  concerned  not  with  the 
apparent,  but  the  real ;  not  with  the  transitory,  but 
the  eternal ;  and,  excepting  Poe,  they  were  all  artists 
of  the  beautiful."  This  is  a  grave  and  strange  indict 
ment.  If  it  is  true,  Poe  preached  one  thing  and  prac 
tised  another.  The  consensus  of  world  opinion,  more 
over,  has  been  unaccountably  at  fault  if  through  all 
the  years  it  has  thought  that  it  saw  beauty  and  heard 
beauty  and  felt  beauty  where  there  was  no  beauty  but 
only  a  sham  pretense.  If  Poe  was  not  an  artist  of 
the  beautiful,  what  was  he  an  artist  of?  The  prompt 
and  superficial  answer  is,  He  was  an  artist  of  death. 
Does  he  not  say,  "The  death  of  a  beautiful  woman  is, 
unquestionably,  the  most  poetical  topic  in  the  world"? 
And  are  not  his  poems  uniform  illustrations  of  this 
thesis  ?  Yes ;  but  whatever  his  topic,  Poe's  theme  is 
none  the  less  beauty.  Death,  decay,  separation  are  not 
his  themes.  They  are  only  the  occasions  when  beauty, 
in  flight  or  about  to  take  its  flight,  is  felt  to  be  most 
beautiful ;  when  love,  looking  upon  us  for  the  last 
time,  turns  our  love  into  adoration.  "Nevermore"  is 
not  only  the  refrain  of  The  Raven,  it  was  not  only  a 
word  that  loomed  terrible  and  menacing  in  Poe's 
thought,  it  was  a  doom  under  the  shadow  of  which 
beauty  and  love  seemed  suddenly  not  of  this  world  but 
visitants  recalled. 

If  Poe's  central  theme  needs  any  defence,  it  may 
be  found  in  Browning: 

1 America  in  Literature  (1903),  p.  220. 


THE  POET  209 

Tis  only  when  they  spring  to  heaven  that  angels 
Reveal  themselves  to  you ;  they  sit  all  day 
Beside  you,  and  lie  down  at  night  by  you 
Who  care  not  for  their  presence,  muse  or  sleep, 
And  all  at  once  they  leave  you,  and  you  know  them ! 

If  Browning  needs  reenforcement,  it  may  be  found 
in  Shakespeare: 

The  setting  sun,  and  music  at  the  close, 
As  the  last  taste  of  sweets,  is  sweetest  last, 
Writ  in  remembrance  more  than  things  long  past. 

II 

In  his  famous  Preface  to  the  Poems  of  1845  Poe 
writes : 

"These  trifles  are  collected  and  republished  chiefly 
with  a  view  to  their  redemption  from  the  many  im 
provements  to  which  they  have  been  subjected  while 
going  'the  rounds  of  the  press."  I  am  naturally 
anxious  that  if  what  I  have  written  is  to  circulate  at 
all,  it  should  circulate  as  I  wrote  it.  In  defence  of  my 
own  taste,  nevertheless,  it  is  incumbent  on  me  to  say 
that  I  think  nothing  in  this  volume  of  much  value  to 
the  public,  or  very  creditable  to  myself.  Events  not  to 
be  controlled  have  prevented  me  from  making,  at  any 
time,  any  serious  effort  in  what,  under  happier  cir 
cumstances,  would  have  been  the  field  of  my  choice. 
With  me  poetry  has  been  not  a  purpose,  but  a  passion ; 
and  the  passions  should  be  held  in  reverence ;  they 
must  not — they  cannot  at  will  be  excited  with  an  eye 
to  the  paltry  compensations,  or  the  more  paltry  com 
mendations,  of  mankind." 

Poe,  it  may  be  added,  was  a  ceaseless  reviser  of 
the  text  of  his  poems,  and  his  revisions  were  uniformly 


210  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

improvements.2    The  texts  that  follow  are  those  that 
seem  to  have  received  the  poet's  latest  authorization. 

TO  HELEN   (1831) 

["The  grace  and  symmetry  of  the  outline,"  wrote 
Lowell,  "are  such  as  few  poets  ever  attain.  There  is 
a  smack  of  ambrosia  about  it."  Hardly  a  note  of  dis 
sent  breaks  the  chorus  of  praise  that  has  greeted  this 
crystalline  lyric.  Of  all  Poe's  poems,  this,  I  think, 
would  receive  the  vote  for  first  place  among  English- 
speaking  critics,  while  Ulalume  would  receive  first 
award  among  French  critics.  It  has  been  said  that 
the  highest  praise  ever  paid  a  woman  by  a  litterateur 
was  Steele's  tribute  to  Lady  Elizabeth  Hastings :  "To 
love  her  was  a  liberal  education."  Against  this  I 
should  confidently  pit  Poe's  second  stanza  with  the 
wide  vistas  that  open  in  its  two  concluding  lines. 
"Nicean"  is  probably  a  vague  reference  to  Milton's 
"Nyseian  isle"  (Paradise  Lost,  IV,  I,  275).  -We 
know  what  Poe  meant  by  "hyacinth  hair"  from  a  pas 
sage  in  Ligeia:  see  page  248.] 

Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 

Like  those  Nicean  barks  of  yore, 
That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 

The  weary,  way-worn  wanderer  bore 

To  his  own  native  shore. 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 

Thy  Naiad  airs  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece, 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 

Lo!  in  yon  brilliant  window-niche 

How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand, 
The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand! 

Ah,  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 

Are  Holy-Land! 

aThe  number  and  minuteness  of  these  revisions  were  not 
realized  until  Killis  Campbell  tracked  and  recorded  them  in 
his  standard  edition  of  The  Poems  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


THE  POET 


ISRAFEL   (1831) 

And  the  angel  Israfel  [whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute, 
and]  who  has  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures. — 
KORAN.  But  the  bracketed  words  are  Poe's  insertion  to  make 
the  text  fit  the  poem. 

[The  sub-title  might  well  be  phrased  "The  Influ 
ence  of  Environment  on  the  Poet/'  The  last  stanza  is 
Poe's  apologia.  Certainly  this  stanza  would  make  a 
better  epitaph  for  a  Poe  monument  than  that  suggested 
by  Longfellow, 

And   the    fever   called   "Living" 
Is  conquered  at  last, 

from  the  poem  For  Annie.  Nowhere  else  in  Poe's 
writings  is  there  so  violent  an  inversion  of  the  normal 
order  of  words  as  in 

But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 
for 

But  that  angel  trod  the  skies.] 

In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 

Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute; 
None  sing  so  wildly  well 
As  the  angel  Israfel, 
And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell) 
Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 

Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above 

In  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamoured  moon 
Blushes  with  love, 

While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 

(With  the  rapid  Pleiads,  even, 

Which  were  seven) 

Pauses  in  Heaven. 

'And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 

And  the  other  listening  things) 
That  Israfeli's  fire 
Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings — 
The  trembling  living  wire 

Of  those  unusual  strings. 


212  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 

Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty — 
Where  Love's  a  grown-up  God — 

Where  the  Houri  glances  are 
Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 

Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 

Therefore,  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest 
An  unimpassioned  song; 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest! 
Merrily  live,  and  long! 

The  ecstasies  above 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit — 
Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 

With  the  fervour  of  thy  lute — 

Well  may  the  stars  be  mute ! 

[Yes,  Heaven  is  thine;  but  this 

Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours ; 

Our  flowers  are  merely — flowers, 
And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 

Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

If  I  could  dwell 
Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 
He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 
While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 

THE  CITY  IN  THE  SEA  (1831) 

[This  is  the  beginning  in  Poe's  verse  of  ruin  from 
within,  and  also  of  the  kind  of  repetition  that  was  to 
become  increasingly  characteristic.  The  doom  of 
Babylon  has  influenced  the  picture:  see  Revelation 
XVI,  XVII,  XVIII,  XX,  and  Isaiah  XIV.  I  do  not 
think,  however,  that  in  its  present  final  form  the  poem 
was  meant  to  express  the  damnation  of  the  wicked  but 
rather  the  dethronement  of  Death  himself  and  the 
passing  of  his  kingdom.  See  Revelation  XX,  14.] 


THE  POET  213 


Lo !  Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 

In  a  strange  city  lying  alone 

Far  down  within  the  dim  West, 

Where  the  good  and  the  bad  and  the  worst  and  the  best 

Have  gone  to  their  eternal  rest. 

There  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers 

(Time-eaten  towers  that  tremble  not!) 

Resemble  nothing  that  is  ours. 

Around,  by  lifting  winds  forgot, 

Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 

The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

No  rays  from  the  holy  heaven  come  down 
On  the  long  night-time  of  that  town ; 
But  light  from  out  the  lurid  sea 
Streams  up  the  turrets  silently — 
Gleams  up  the  pinnacles  far  and  free — 
Up  domes — up  spires — up  kingly  halls — 
Up  fanes — up  Babylon-like  walls — 
Up  shadowy  long-forgotten  bowers 
Of  sculptured  ivy  and  stone  flowers — 
Up  many  and  many  a  marvellous  shrine 
Whose  wreathed  friezes  intertwine 
The  viol,  the  violet,  and  the  vine. 
Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 
The  melancholy  waters  lie. 
So  blend  the  turrets  and  shadows  there 
That  all  seem  pendulous  in  air, 
While  from  a  proud  tower  in  the  town 
Death  looks  gigantically  down. 

There  open  fanes  and  gaping  graves 

Yawn  level  with  the  luminous  waves; 

But  not  the  riches  there  that  lie 

In  each  idol's  diamond  eye, — 

Not  the  gaily-jeweled  dead, 

Tempt  the  waters  from  their  bed; 

For  no  ripples  curl,  alas, 

Along  that  wilderness  of  glass ; 

No  swellings  tell  that  winds  may  be 

Upon  some  far-off  happier  sea; 

No  heavings  hint  that  winds  have  been 

On  seas  less  hideously  serene! 

But  lo,  a  stir  is  in  the  air! 
The  wave — there  is  a  movement  there! 
As  if  the  towers  had  thrust  aside, 
In  slightly  sinking,  the  dull  tide — 
As  if  their  tops  had  feebly  given 
A  void  within  the  filmy  Heaven. 


214  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

The  waves  have  now  a  redder  glow— 
The  hours  are  breathing  faint  and  low — 
And  when,  amid  no  earthly  moans, 
Down,  down  that  town  shall  settle  hence, 
Hell,  rising  from  a  thousand  thrones, 
Shall  do  it  reverence. 

THE  COLISEUM    (1833) 

[If  the  judges  had  not  been  unwilling  to  award  both 
honors  to  the  same  contestant,  this  poem  would  have 
won  the  fifty  dollar  prize  when  The  MS.  Found  in  a 
Bottle  won  the  hundred  dollar  prize  offered  by  the  Bal 
timore  Saturday  Morning  Visitor.  See  page  2. 
Though  written  in  blank  verse — a  meter  used  only 
three  times  by  Poe  as  a  lyric  measure — the  poem  is  di 
vided  into  sections  that  correspond  to  the  paragraphs 
of  prose.  In  the  last  section,  ruin,  vanished  power,  and 
departed  glory  find  their  elect  interpreter.] 

Type  of  the  antique  Rome !    Rich  reliquary 

Of  lofty  contemplation  left  to  Time 

By  buried  centuries  of  pomp  and  power ! 

At  length — at  length — after  so  many  days 

Of  weary  pilgrimage  and  burning  thirst 

(Thirst  for  the  springs  of  lore  that  in  thee  lie), 

I  kneel,  an  altered  and  an  humble  man, 

Amid  thy  shadows,  and  so  drink  within 

My  very  soul  thy  grandeur,  gloom,  and  glory! 

Vastness!  and  Age!  and  Memories  of  Eld! 
Silence!  and  Desolation!  and  dim  Night! 
I  feel  ye  now — I  feel  ye  in  your  strength — 
O  spells  more  sure  than  e'er  Judsean  king 
Taught  in  the  gardens  of  Gethsemane! 
O  charms  more  potent  than  the  rapt  Chaldee 
Ever  drew  down  from  out  the  quiet  stars ! 

Here,  where  a  hero  fell,  a  column  falls ! 

Here,  where  the  mimic  eagle  glared  in  gold, 

A  midnight  vigil  holds  the  swarthy  bat! 

Here,  where  the  dames  of  Rome  their  gilded  hair 

Waved  to  the  wind,  now  wave  the  reed  and  thistle ! 


THE  POET  215 

Here,  where  on  golden  throne  the  monarch  lolled, 
Glides,  spectre-like,  unto  his  marble  home, 
Lit  by  the  wan  light  of  the  horned  moon, 
The  swift  and  silent  lizard  of  the  stones ! 

But  stay!  these  walls — these  ivy-clad  arcades — 

These  mouldering  plinths — these  sad  and  blackened  shafts — 

These  vague  entablatures — this  crumbling  frieze — 

These  shattered  cornices — this  wreck — this  ruin — 

These  stones — alas  !  these  grey  stones — are  they  all — 

All  of  the  famed  and  the  colossal  left 

By  the  corrosive  Hours  to  Fate  and  me? 

"Not  all"— the  Echoes  answer  me— "not  all ! 

Prophetic  sounds  and  loud,  arise  forever 

From  us,  and  from  all  Ruin,  unto  the  wise, 

As  melody  from  Memnon  to  the  Sun. 

We  rule  the  hearts  of  mightiest  men — we  rule 

With  a  despotic  sway  all  giant  minds. 

We  are  not  impotent — we  pallid  stones. 

Not  all  our  power  is  gone — not  all  our  fame — 

Not  all  the  magic  of  our  high  renown — 

Not  all  the  wonder  that  encircles  us — 

Not  all  the  mysteries  that  in  us  lie — 

Not  all  the  memories  that  hang  upon 

And  cling  around  about  us  as  a  garment, 

Clothing  us  in  a  robe  of  more  than  glory." 

TO  ONE   IN  PARADISE    (1834) 

[The  refrain  of  The  Raven  may  be  glimpsed 
through  a  translucent  rather  than  transparent  veil  in 
the  thrice  repeated  "no  more"  of  these  lines  and  in  the 
recurrence  of  the  same  words  in  the  Sonnet — To  Zante 
(1837)  and  the  Sonnet — Silence  (1840).  The  poem 
occurs  in  the  short  story  called  The  Assignation.  Four 
years  after  Poe's  death,  he  was  accused  of  purloining 
the  lines  from  Tennyson,  but  the  laureate  promptly  set 
the  matter  right.] 

Thou  wast  all  that  to  me,  love, 

For  which  my  soul  did  pine — 
A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 

A  fountain  and  a  shrine, 
All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers, 

And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 


216  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Ah,  dream  too  bright  to  last ! 

Ah,  starry  Hope !  that  didst  arise 
But  to  be  overcast ! 

A  voice  from  out  the  Future  cries, 
"On !  on  !"— but  o'er  the  Past 

(Dim  gulf!)  my  spirit  hovering  lies 
Mute,  motionless,  aghast. 

For,  alas !  alas !  with  me 

The  light  of  Life  is  o'er ! 

"No  more — no  more — no  more — " 
(Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 

To  the  sands  upon  the  shore) 
Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tree, 

Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar ! 

And  all  my  days  are  trances, 

And  all  my  nightly  dreams 
Are  where  thy  grey  eye  glances, 

And  where  thy  footstep  gleams — 
In  what  ethereal  dances, 

By  what  eternal  streams. 

THE    HAUNTED   PALACE    (1839) 

[This  poem,  called  by  Poe  a  ballad,  was  an  im 
promptu  of  the  hero  in  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher 
and,  as  Lowell  says,  "loses  greatly  by  being  taken  out 
of  its  rich  and  appropriate  setting."  To  call  it  a  self- 
portraiture  of  Poe  is  to  deal  flagrantly  with  both  liter 
ature  and  life.  "By  The  Haunted  Palace''  said  Poe, 
"I  mean  to  imply  a  mind  haunted  by  phantoms — a  dis 
ordered  brain."  Poe's  poem  was  published  in  April, 
1839,  an<3  Longfellow's  Beleaguered  City  in  the  fol 
lowing  November.  The  charge  of  plagiarism  which 
Poe  promptly  brought  is  not  borne  out  by  a  comparison 
of  the  form  or  content  of  the  two  poems.] 

In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 
By  good  angels  tenanted, 

Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace- 
Radiant  palace — reared  its  head. 

In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion — 
It  stood  there ! 

Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 
Over  fabric  half  so  fair ! 


THE  POET  217 


Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow 
(This — all  this — was  in  the  olden 

Time  long  ago), 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odour  went  away. 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley, 

Through  two  luminous  windows,  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically, 

To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law, 
Round  about  a  throne  where,  sitting, 

(Porphyrogene!) 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace  door, 
Through  which   came  flowing,    flowing,   flowing 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate. 
(Ah,  let  us  mourn ! — for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him  desolate!) 
And  round  about  his  home  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed, 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed. 

And  travellers,  now,  within  that  valley, 

Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 
Vast  forms,  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody, 
While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river, 

Through  the  pale  door 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever 

And  laugh — but  smile  no  more. 

THE  CONQUEROR  WORM   (1843) 

[Before  interpreting  this  tragedy  in  five  acts  as 
Poe's  philosophy  of  life,  recall  the  circumstances  of  its 


2i8  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

composition.  It  was  published  in  1843  an<^  incorpo 
rated  in  Ligeia  when  the  latter  story  was  republished 
in  The  Broadway  Journal  of  September  27,  1845. 
The  first  edition  of  Ligeia,  that  of  1838,  contained', 
instead  of  The  Conqueror  Worm  and  the  paragraph 
that  precedes  it  as  well  as  the  two  paragraphs  that  fol 
low  it,  these  words:  "Methinks  I  again  behold  the 
terrible  struggles  of  her  lofty,  her  nearly  idealized  na 
ture,  with  the  might  and  the  terror  and  the  majesty  of 
the  great  Shadow.  But  she  perished.  The  giant 
will  succumbed  to  a  power  more  stern.  And  I 
thought,  as  I  gazed  upon  the  corpse,  of  the  wild  pas 
sage  in  Joseph  Glanvill.  'The  will  therein  lieth,  which 
dieth  not.  Who  knoweth  the  mysteries  of  the  will, 
with  its  vigor  ?  For  God  is  but  a  great  will  pervading 
all  things  by  nature  of  its  intentness.  Man  doth  not 
yield  him  to  the  angels,  nor  unto  death  utterly,  save 
only  through  the  weakness  of  his  feeble  will.' "  This 
is  not  a  strong  passage,  not  strong  enough  for  the 
strategic  position  that  it  occupies  in  the  story.  Poe 
determines  to  remodel  it.  Instead  of  representing 
Ligeia's  .enemy,  death,  as  a  shadow,  he  will  represent  it 
as  the  worm  that  dieth  not.  Both  symbols  are  bibli 
cal  but  the  latter  is  far  more  concrete  and  poignant. 
And  poetry  is  better  suited  to  its  vivid  and  immemo 
rial  staging  than  prose.  In  the  meanwhile  Poe  had 
read  and  commended,  in  June,  1840,  a  poem  by  one 
Spencer  Wallace  Cone,  containing  the  lines, 

Spread  o'er  his  rigid  form 

The  banner  of  his  pride, 
And  let  him  meet   the  conqueror  worm 

With  his  good  sword  by  his  side. 

He  now  builds  his  substitute  poem  around  the  new 
symbol  but  builds  it  as  the  work  of  Ligeia,  "composed 


THE  POET  5219 

by  herself  not  many  days  before."  The  poem  repre 
sents  Ligeia's  nadir  of  hopelessness,  against  which  she 
protests  in  impassioned  prayer  and  with  unconquer 
able  will.  The  whole  story  is  planned  to  give  the  lie 
to  the  materialism  and  hopeless  finality  of  The  Con 
queror  Worm.  See  Ligeia,  page  254.] 

Lo!  'tis  a  gala  night 

Within  the  lonesome  latter  years ! 
An  angel  throng,  bewinged,  bedight 

In  veils,  and  drowned  in  tears, 
Sit  in  a  theatre,  to  see 

A  play  of  hopes  and  fears, 
While  the  orchestra  breathes  fitfully 

The  music  of  the  spheres. 

Mimes,  in  the  form  of  God  on  high, 

Mutter  and  mumble  low, 
And  hither  and  thither  fly — 

Mere  puppets  they,  who  come  and  go 
At  bidding  of  vast  formless  things 

That  shift  the  scenery  to  and  fro, 
Flapping  from  out  their  Condor  wings 

Invisible  Woe ! 

That  motley  drama — oh,  be  sure 

It  shall  not  be  forgot ! 
With  its  Phantom  chased  for  evermore, 

By  a  crowd  that  seize  it  not, 
Through  a  circle  that  ever  returneth  in 

To  the  self-same  spot, 
And  much  of  Madness,  and  more  of  Sin, 

And  Horror  the  soul  of  the  plot. 

But  see,  amid  the  mimic  rout 

A  crawling  shape  intrude! 
A  blood-red  thing  that  writhes  from  out 

The  scenic  solitude ! 
It  writhes  ! — it  writhes  ! — with  mortal  pangs 

The  mimes  become  its  food, 
And  seraphs  sob  at  vermin  fangs 

In  human  gore  imbued. 

Out— out  are  the  lights— out  all! 

And,  over  each  quivering  form, 
The  curtain,  a  funeral  pall, 

Comes  down  with  the  rush  of  a  storm, 


220  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

While  the  angels,  all  pallid  and  wan, 

Uprising,  unveiling,  affirm 
That  the  play  is  the  tragedy.  "Man," 

And  its  hero  the  Conqueror  Worm. 

THE  RAVEN    (1845) 

[When  The  Raven  was  first  published  in  the  New 
York  Evening  Mirror  for  January  29,  1845,  from  ad 
vance  sheets  of  The  American  Whig  Review,  N.  P. 
Willis,  the  editor,  introduced  it  by  the  following  note : 
"We  are  permitted  to  copy  (in  advance  of  publica 
tion),  from  the  second  number  of  the  'American  Re 
view/  the  following  remarkable  poem  by  Edgar  Poe. 
In  our  opinion,  it  is  the  most  effective  single  example 
of  'fugitive  poetry'  ever  published  in  this  country ;  and 
unsurpassed  in  English  poetry  for  subtle  conception, 
masterly  ingenuity  of  versification,  and  consistent  sus 
taining  of  imaginative  lift  .  .  .  It  is  one  of 
those  'dainties  bred  in  a  book/  which  we  feed  on.  It 
will  stick  to  the  memory  of  everybody  who  reads  it." 
J.  H.  Ingram,  Poe's  English  biographer,  summarizes 
the  later  consensus  of  opinion  when  he  calls  The 
Raven  "the  most  popular  lyrical  poem  in  the  world." 
The  charge  of  mere  artifice  will  not  hold.  "Que  1'  on 
ne  dise  pas  trop  haut,  toutefois,"  says  Lauvriere,  "que 
T  art  T  emporte  ici  sur  1'  inspiration  et  V  artifice  meme1 
sur  1'  art.  Non,  il  suffit  de  lire  la  traduction,  si  im- 
putssante  qu'  elle  soit,  pour  voir  qu'  a  la  magie  des 
mots  survit  pleinement  le  sens  pathetique"  (Edgar  Poe 
in  Ecrivains  Strangers,  1911,  p.  217).  But  beware  of 
reading  "remorse"  into  The  Raven,  as  so  many  plat 
form  interpreters  have  done.  Even  Gosse  speaks  of 
Poe's  "remorseful  passion  for  the  irrecoverable  dead." 
There  is  not  a  scintilla  of  remorse  in  Poe's  poetry. 


THE  POET  221 

The  Raven  embodies  not  remorse  but  the  universal 
protest  of  the  soul  against  the  denial  of  immortality. 
As  Poe  sometimes  celebrates  beauty  via  decay,  so  here 
he  celebrates  faith  via  doubt.  For  the  other  side  of 
the  shield,  see  I  Corinthians  15.  That  Poe  believed 
in  the  immortality  of  the  soul  is  evident  from  many 
assertions  made  during  his  lifetime  and  especially 
from  the  final  and  victorious  affirmation  of  Eureka: 
see  pages  68,  72.  Turn  also  to  The  Conversation 
of  Eiros  and  Charmion  (pages  305-312),  The  Colloquy 
of  Monos  and  Una  (pages  320-333),  and  The  Power  of 
Words  (pages  333,  339),  in  each  of  which  the  dead 
lovers  are  happily  re-united  in  the  other  world.  For 
The  Raven  in  prospect  and  retrospect,  read  again  De 
fects  in  the  Technique  of  Barnaby  Rudge  (page  140) 
and  The  Technique  of  the  Raven  (pages  173-190).  You 
will  find  an  interesting  analogy  to  the  ascending 
questions  put  by  the  lover  in  The  Raven — but  nothing 
more  than  an  analogy — in  the  two  famous  ballads, 
Lord  Randal  and  Edward.} 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak  and 

weary, 

Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  lore — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a 

tapping, 

As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
"'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "tapping  at  my  chamber 

door — 

Only  this  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  December ; 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  the 

floor. 
Eagerly    I    wished    the    morrow; — vainly    I    had    sought    to 

borrow 
From    my  books    surcease   of   sorrow — sorrow   for   the   lost 

Lenore — 
For   the   rare   and    radiant   maiden   whom   the   angels  name 

Lenore — 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 


222  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled    me — filled    me    with    fantastic    terrors    never    felt 

before ; 
So    that   now,   to    still   the   beating   of   my   heart,   I    stood 

repeating 

"  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door ; — 

This  it  is  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger;  hesitating  then  no  longer, 
"Sir,"  said  I,  "or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I  implore ; 
But   the    fact   is   I    was   napping,    and    so    gently   you   came 

rapping, 
And   so   faintly  you   came  tapping,   tapping  at  my   chamber 

door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you" — here  I  opened  wide  the 

door ; — 

Darkness  there  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there  wonder 
ing,  fearing, 

Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal  ever  dared  to  dream 
before ; 

But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no  token, 

And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered  word, 
"Lenore !" 

This   I   whispered,   and  an  echo  murmured  back  the  word 
"Lenore!" 

Merely  this  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into,  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  somewhat  louder  than  before. 
"Surely,"   said   I,   "surely   that  is   something  at  my  window 

lattice; 

Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery  explore — 

Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment  and  this  mystery  explore;— 

'Tis  the  wind  and  nothing  more !" 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt  and 

flutter 

In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of  yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ;  not  a  minute  stopped  or 

stayed  he; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber 

door — 

Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door- 
Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 


THE  POET  223 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling, 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
"Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said,  "art 

sure  no  craven, 
Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Raven  wandering  from  the  Nightly 

shore — 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plutonian 

shore  1" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so 

plainly, 

Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy  bore; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber 

door — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber 

door, 

With  such  name  as  "Nevermore." 


But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That   one   word,    as    if   his   soul    in   that   one   word   he   did 

outpour. 
Nothing    farther    then    he   uttered — not   a    feather   then   he 

fluttered— 
Till    I    scarcely   more    than    muttered,    "Other    friends    have 

flown  before — 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  hopes  have  flown 

before." 

Then  the  bird  said  "Nevermore." 


Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
"Doubtless,"  said  I,  "what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock  and  store 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  unmerciful  Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one  burden 

bore — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore 

Of  'Never — nevermore.' " 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird,  and  bust 

and  door ; 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of  yore — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous  bird 

of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "Nevermore." 


224  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my  bosom's 

core ; 

This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp-light  gloated  o'er, 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamp-light  gloating 

o'er, 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,   perfumed   from   an 

unseen  censer 
Swung  by  Seraphim  whose  foot-falls  tinkled  on  the  tufted 

floor. 
"Wretch,"  I  cried,  "thy  God  hath  lent  thee— by  these  angels 

f  he  hath  sent  thee 

Respite — respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of  Lenore ; 
Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe  and  forget  this  lost 

Lenore !" 

Quoth  the  Raven  "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil!  prophet  still,  if  bird  or 

devil  !— 
Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee  here 

ashore, 

Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted — 
On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I  implore — 
Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead? — tell  me — tell  me,  I 

implore !" 

Quoth  the  Raven  "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil! — prophet  still,  if  bird  or 

devil ! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us — by  that  God  we  both 

adore — 

Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore — 
Clasp    a    rare   and   radiant   maiden    whom   the   angels   name 

Lenore." 

Quoth  the  Raven  "Nevermore." 

"Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend !"  I  shrieked, 

upstarting — 
"Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's  Plutonian 

shore ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath 

spoken ! 

Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  ! — quit  the  bust  above  my  door ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from 

off  my  door!" 

Quoth  the  Raven  "Nevermore." 


THE  POET  225 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door; 
And   his   eyes   have   all   the   seeming   of    a   demon's   that   is 

dreaming, 
And  the  lamp-light  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on 

the  floor ; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the 

floor 

Shall  be  lifted— nevermore ! 

ULALUME — A  BALLAD  (1847) 

["It  is  not,  however,  in  The  Bells  or  in  The  Raven, 
marvellous  as  are  these  tours  de  force,  that  we  see  the 
essential  greatness  of  Poe  revealed,"  says  Gosse. 
"The  best  of  his  poems  are  those  in  which  he  deals 
less  boisterously  with  the  sentiment  of  mystery. 
During  the  last  months  of  his  unhappy  life,  he  com 
posed  three  lyrics  which,  from  a  technical  point  of 
view,  must  be  regarded  not  only  as  the  most  interest 
ing  which  he  wrote,  but  as  those  which  have  had  the 
most  permanent  effect  upon  subsequent  literature,  not 
only  in  England  merely  ^  but  in  France.  These  are 
Ulalume,  Annabel  Lee,  For  Annie"  (Contemporary 
Review,  February,  1909.  The  article  is  reprinted  in 
Some  Diversions  of  a  Man  of  Letters,  1919)'.  "Ula 
lume"  says  Louis  P.  Betz,  one  of  the  best  German 
students  of  Poe,  "is  nothing  less  than  the  masterpiece 
of  the  new  symbolic  poetry,  especially  to  the  younger 
generation  opposed  to  Zola"  (Studien  zur  vergleich- 
enden  Literatur-geschichte  der  neueren  Zeit,  1902). 
The  simplest  interpretation  of  the  poem  is  the  best: 
It  is  the  anniversary  night  of  the  burial  of  Mrs.  Poe. 
The  poet  is  in  communion  with  himself,  with  his  sub 
conscious  or  subliminal  self.  He  wanders  along  the 
well-worn  pathway  to  the  grave  and,  momentarily 
forgetful  of  his  grief,  feels  the  call  of  peace  and 


226  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

morning.  But  Psyche,  his  deeper  soul-nature,  sees  an 
omen  of  ill.  Hardly  has  he  allayed  the  foreboding  of 
Psyche  when  he  comes  abruptly  upon  the  grave. 
Memory  returns  now  with  an  added  pang  because  of 
the  interim  of  forgetfulness.  A  stanza  from  Alfred 
Noyes'  Iron  Crown  touches  upon  the  psychology  of 
Ulalume : 

Not  memory  of  vanished  bliss, 

But  suddenly  to  know 
I  had   forgotten!     This,   O  this 

With  iron  crowned  my  woe. 

Compare  also  Wordsworth's  sonnet  Desideria,  and  the 
tenth  stanza  of  The  Portrait,  written  by  Rossetti  in 

1847.1 

The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober; 

The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere — 

The  leaves  they  were  withering  and  sere; 
It  was  night  in  the  lonesome  October 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year ; 
It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 

In  the  misty  mid  region  of  Weir — 
It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 

In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

Here  once,  through  an  alley  Titanic, 

Of  cypress,  I  roamed  with  my  Soul— 

Of  cypress,  with  Psyche,  my  Soul. 
These  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcanic 

As  the  scoriae  rivers  that  roll — 

As  the  lavas  that  restlessly  roll 
Their  sulphurous  currents  down  Yaanek 

In  the  ultimate  climes  of  the  pole — 
That  groan  as  they  roll  down  Mount  Yaanek 

In  the  realms  of  the  boreal  pole. 

Our  talk  had  been  serious  and  sober, 
But  our  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and  sere — 
Our  memories  were  treacherous  and  sere — 

For  we  knew  not  the  month  was  October, 
And  we  marked  not  the  night  of  the  year — 
(Ah,  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year!) 


THE  POET  227 

We  noted  not  the  dim  lake  of  Auber — 

(Though  once  we  had  journeyed  down  here) — 

Remembered  not  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
Nor  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

And  now,  as  the  night  was  senescent 

And  star-dials  pointed  to  morn — 

As  the  star-dials  hinted  of  morn — 
At  the  end  of  our  path  a  liquescent 

And  nebulous  lustre  was  born, 
Out  of  which  a  miraculous  crescent 

Arose  with  a  duplicate  horn — 
Astarte's  bediamonded  crescent 

Distinct  with  its  duplicate  horn. 

And  I  said — "She  is  warmer  than  Dian: 

She  rolls  through  an  ether  of  sighs — 

She  revels  in  a  region  of  sighs : 
She  has  seen  that  the  tears  are  not  dry  on 

These  cheeks,  where  the  worm  never  dies, 
And  has>  come  past  the  stars  of  the  Lion 

To  point  us  the  path  to  the  skies — 

To  the  Lethean  peace  of  the  skies — 
Come  up,  in  despite  of  the  Lion, 

To  shine  on  us  with  her  bright  eyes — 
Come  up  through  the  lair  of  the  Lion, 

With  love  in  her  luminous  eyes." 

But  Psyche,  uplifting  her  finger, 

Said — "Sadly  this  star  I  mistrust — 

Her  pallor  I  strangely  mistrust : — 
Oh,  hasten  ! — oh,  let  us  not  linger ! 

Oh,  fly  !— let  us  fly !— f or  we  must." 
In  terror  she  spoke,  letting  sink  her 

Wings  until  they  trailed  in  the  dust — 
In  agony  sobbed,  letting  sink  her 

Plumes  till  they  trailed  in  the  dust — 

Till  they  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust. 

I  replied — "This  is  nothing  but  dreaming: 

Let  us  on  by  this  tremulous  light ! 

Let  us  bathe  in  this  crystalline  light! 
Its  Sibyllic  splendour  is  beaming 

With  Hope  and  in  Beauty  to-night : — 

See! — it  flickers  up  the  sky  through  the  night! 
Ah,  we  safely  may  trust  to  its  gleaming, 

And  be  sure  it  will  lead  us  aright — 
We  safely  may  trust  to  a  gleaming 

That  cannot  but  guide  us  aright, 

Since  it  flickers  up  to  Heaven  through  the  night." 


228  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


Thus  I  pacified  Psyche  and  kissed  her, 

And  tempted  her  out  of  her  gloom— 

And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom ; 
And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista, 

But  were  stopped  by  the  door  of  a  tomb — 

By  the  door  of  a  legended  tomb ; 
And  I  said — "What  is  written,  sweet  sister, 

On  the  door  of  this  legended  tomb?" 

She  replied— "Ulalume— Ulalume— 

Tis  the  vault  of  thy  lost  Ulalume!" 

Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober 
As  the  leaves  that  were  crisped  and  sere — 
As  the  leaves  that  were  withering  and  sere, 

And  I  cried — "It  was  surely  October 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year 
That  I  journeyed — I  journeyed  down  here — 
That  I  brought  a  dread  burden  down  here — 
On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year, 
Ah,  what  demon  has  tempted  me  here? 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dim  lake  of  Auber — 
This  misty  mid  region  of  Weir — 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
This  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir." 

THE  BELLS  (1849) 

[Echoic  verse  is  not  at  best  a  high  order  of  poetry 
but  by  common  consent  The  Bells  is,  as  Edwin  Mark- 
ham  calls  it,  "the  finest  example  in  our  language  of  the 
suggestive  power  of  rhyme  and  of  the  echo  of  sound 
to  sense."  The  poem  grew  by  many  revisions  and 
augmentations  from  a  slight  thing  of  two  unequal 
stanzas,  celebrating,  respectively,  wedding  bells  and 
funeral  bells.] 

I 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells — 

Silver  bells ! 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells  I 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 
With  a  crystalline  delight; 


THE  POET  229 


Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 


II 


Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 

Golden  bells! 

What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight! — 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 

On  the  moon! 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells! 
How  it  swells ! 
How  it  dwells 

On  the  Future ! — how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells! 

Ill 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells — 

Brazen  bells! 

What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune, 

In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire, 
Leaping   higher,   higher,   higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavour 
Now — now  to  sit,  or  never, 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon, 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  Despair! 

How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air ! 
Yet  the  ear,  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging, 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
In  the  clamour  and  the  clangour  of  the  bells ! 

IV 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells- 
Iron  bells! 

What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels ! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 

And  the  people — ah,  the  people — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  who,  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman — 
They   are    neither  brute  nor  human — 

They  are  Ghouls: — 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; — 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Rolls 

A  paean  from  the  bells! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  paean  of  the  bells! 
And  he  dances,  and  he  yells; 


THE  POET  231 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  paean  of  the  bells  :— 

Of  the  bells: 
Keeping  time,  time,  time 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells  :— 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells:— 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 

FOR  ANNIE   (1849) 

[The  poem  is  named  for  Mrs.  Annie  Richmond, 
of  Lowell,  Massachusetts,  who  with  her  husband  was 
a  devoted  and  helpful  friend  of  the  Poe  family.  It 
is  a  tribute  to  love.  That  at  least  survives  death. 
The  dead  lover  speaks  here  from  the  grave  as  the  sur 
viving  lover  speaks  in  The  Raven,  Ulalume,  and  An 
nabel  Lee.  In  The  Blessed  Damosel  of  Rossetti, 
which  was  suggested  by  The  Raven,  the  condition  is 
reversed:  the  loved  one  speaks  from  heaven  to  her 
lover  on  earth.  Killis  Campbell  cites  in  explanation  a 
passage  from  Poe's  Mesmeric  Revelation:  "There  are 
two  bodies — the  rudimental  and  the  complete;  corre 
sponding  with  the  two  conditions  of  the  worm  and  the 
butterfly.  What  we  call  'death'  is  but  the  painful 
metamorphosis.  Our  present  incarnation  is  progress 
ive,  preparatory,  temporary.  Our  future  is  perfected, 
ultimate,  immortal.  The  ultimate  life  is  the  full  de 
sign."  See  also  The  Colloquy  of  Monos  and  Una. 


232  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

The  first  part  of  the  concluding  speech  of  Monos 
(pages  327-332)  is  a  sort  of  prose  For  Annie.  Mal- 
larme  considered  this  the  best  of  Poe's  poems,  but  he 
did  not  understand  it:  he  thought  the  speaker  was  a 
convalescent.] 

Thank  Heaven!  the  crisis — 

The  danger  is  past, 
And  the  lingering  illness 

Is  over  at  last — 
And  the  fever  called  "Living" 

Is  conquered  at  last. 

Sadly,  I  know 

I  am  shorn  of  my  strength, 
And  no  muscle  I  move 

As  I  lie  at  full  length — 
But  no  matter  ! — I  feel 

1  am  better  at  length. 

And  I  rest  so  composedly 

Now,  in  my  bed, 
That  any  beholder 

Might  fancy  me  dead — 
Might  start  at  beholding  me, 

Thinking  me  dead. 

The  moaning  and  groaning, 

The  sighing  and  sobbing, 
Are  quieted  now, 

With  that  horrible  throbbing 
At  heart: — ah  that  horrible, 

Horrible  throbbing! 

The  sickness — the  nausea — 

The  pitiless  pain — 
Have  ceased  with  the  fever 

That  maddened  my  brain — 
With  the  fever  called  "Living" 

That  burned  in  my  brain. 

And  oh!  of  all  tortures 

That  torture  the  worst 
Has  abated — the  terrible 

Torture  of  thirst 
For  the  naphthaline  river 

Of  Passion  accurst: — 
I  have  drank  of  a  water 

That  quenches  all  thirst: — 


THE  POET  233 

Of  a  water  that  flows, 

With  a  lullaby  sound, 
From  a  spring  but  a  very  few 

Feet  under  ground — 
From  a  cavern  not  very  far 

Down  under  ground. 

And  ah!  let  it  never 

Be  foolishly  said 
That  my  room  it  is  gloomy 

And  narrow  my  bed; 
For  man  never  slept 

In  a  different  bed — 
And,  to  sleep,  you  must  slumber 

In  just  such  a  bed. 

My  tantalized  spirit 

Here  blandly  reposes, 
Forgetting,  or  never 

Regretting,  its  roses- 
Its  old  agitations 

Of  myrtles  and  roses: 

For  now,  while  so  quietly 

Lying,  it  fancies 
A  holier  odour 

About  it,  of  pansies — 
A  rosemary  odour, 

Commingled  with  pansies — 
With  rue  and  the  beautiful 

Puritan  pansies. 

And  so  it  lies  happily, 

Bathing  in  many 
A  dream  of  the  truth 

And  the  beauty  of  Annie — 
Drowned  in  a  bath 

Of  the  tresses  of  Annie. 

She  tenderly  kissed  me, 

She  fondly  caressed, 
And  then  I  fell  gently 

To  sleep  on  her  breast — • 
Deeply  to  sleep 

From  the  heaven  of  her  breast. 

When  the  light  was  extinguished 

She  covered  me  warm, 
And  she  prayed  to  the  angels 

To  keep  me  from  harm — 


234  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

To  the  queen  of  the  angels 
To  shield  me  from  harm. 

And  I  lie  so  composedly, 

Now,  in  my  bed, 
(Knowing  her  love) 

That  you  fancy  me  dead — 
And  I  rest  so  contentedly, 

Now,  in  my  bed, 
(With  her  love  at  my  breast) 

That  you  fancy  me  dead — 
That  you  shudder  to  look  at  me, 

Thinking  me  dead  : — 

But  my  heart  it  is  brighter 

Than  all  of  the  many 
Stars  of  the  sky, 

For  it  sparkles  with  Annie — 
It  glows  with  the  light 

Of  the  love  of  my  Annie — 
With  the  thought  of  the  light 

Of  the  eyes  of  my  Annie. 

ANNABEL  LEE   (1849) 

[The  reference  is  of  course  to  Poe's  wife  and  the 
poem  ought  to  lay  forever  the  absurd  contention  that 
Poe  never  really  loved  her,  that  his  devotion  was 
"rather  of  the  nature  of  family  affection  than  of  wed 
ded  love."  Love  is  here  associated  not  with  a  rare 
flower,  a  strain  of  music,  a  familiar  haunt,  etc.,  but 
with  the  elemental,  the  universal,  the  rhythmically  re 
current — with  moon  and  stars.  The  Scotch  critic, 
John  Nichol,  in  his  American  Literature  (1882),  says 
of  that  part  of  Lowell's  Biglow  Papers,  second  series, 
beginning, 

Under  the  yailer-pines  I  house, — 

"This  [to  the  close],  not  the  Commemoration  Ode,  is 
the  author's  masterpiece.  I  set  it  beside  Annabel  Lee, 
and  regard  these  two  poems,  totally  different  though 


THE  POET  235 

they  are,  as  the  two  high-water  marks  of  Transatlantic 
verse."  Do  not  read  "kinsman"  instead  of  "kinsmen" 
in  the  line, 

So  that  her  high-born  kinsmen  came. 
Poe  meant  the  angels,  not  death.] 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  ANNABEL  LEE; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

7  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love — 

I  and  my  ANNABEL  LEE— 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  put  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE; 
So  that  her  highborn  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me — 
Yes ! — that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  put  of  the  cloud  by  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  ANNABEL  LEE. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we — 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we — 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE: 

For  the  moon  never  beams,  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE: 


236  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 

Of  my  darling — my  darling — my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  the  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea — 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 

ELDORADO  (1849) 

["This  poem,"  says  Killis  Campbell,  "like  the  tale 
Von  Kempelen  and  his  Discovery,  is  a  product  of  'the 
'gold-excitement'  of  '49  and  one  of  many  evidences  of 
Poe's  interest  in  contemporary  matters."  It  is  com 
pact  of  high  idealism  and  urgent  resolve,  and  forms  a 
fitting  close  to  the  life  of  one  who,  however  the  feet 
faltered,  kept  the  vision  always  in  front.  Read  it  in 
the  light  of  these  words,  written  by  Poe  to  F.  W. 
Thomas  on  February  14,  1849:  "Depend  upon  it  after 
all,  Thomas,  literature  is  the  most  noble  of  profes 
sions.  In  fact,  it  is  about  the  only  one  fit  for  a  man. 
For  my  own  part  there  is  no  seducing  me  from  the 
path.  I  shall  be  a  litterateur  at  least,  all  my  life ;  nor 
would  I  abandon  the  hopes  which  still  lead  me  on  for 
all  the  gold  in  California.  Talking  of  gold  and  of  the 
temptation  at  present  held  out  to  'poor-devil  authors/ 
did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  all  that  is  really  valuable 
to  a  man  of  letters — to  a  poet  in  especial — is  abso 
lutely  unpurchasable  ?  Love,  fame,  the  dominion  of 
intellect,  the  consciousness  of  power,  the  thrilling  sense 
of  beauty,  the  free  air  of  Heaven,  exercise  of  body  and 
mind,  with  the  physical  and  moral  health  which  result 
— these  and  such  as  these  are  really  all  that  a  poet 
cares  for : — then  answer  me  this — why  should  he  go  to 
California?"] 

Gayly  bedight, 

A  gallant  knight, 
In  sunshine  and  in  shadow, 

Had  journeyed  long, 

Singing  a  song, 
In  search  of  Eldorado. 


THE  POET  237 


But  he  grew  old— 

This  knight  so  bold— 
And  o'er  his  heart  a  shadow 

Fell  as  he  found 

No  spot  of  ground 
That  looked  like  Eldorado. 

And,  as  his  strength 

Failed  him  at  length, 
He  met  a  pilgrim  shadow — 

"Shadow,"  said  he, 

"Where  c^n  it  be— 
This  land  of  Eldorado?" 

"Over  the  Mountains 

Of  the  Moon, 
Down  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 

Ride,  boldly  ride," 

The  shade  replied, — 
"If  you  seek  for  Eldorado !" 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES 


THE  short  story  is  recognized  as  the  most  distinc 
tive  contribution  that  Americans  have  made  to  na 
tional  and  international  literature.  Here  if  anywhere 
we  have  achieved  a  prestige  that  European  critics 
neither  deny  nor  begrudge.  The  type  is  the  newest  of 
all  literary  types  and  in  its  creation  the  masters  are 
easily  recognized.  They  are,  in  the  order  of  their  con 
tributions,  Washington  Irving,  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  Na 
thaniel  Hawthorne,  Bret  Harte,  Joel  Chandler  Harris, 
and  O.  Henry. 

Irving  legendized  the  new  type,  making  it  a  means 
of  storing  legendary  material  in  more  permanent  and 
attractive  form.  Hawthorne  allegorized  it,  convert 
ing  it  into  a  sort  of  miniature  Pilgrim's  Progress. 
Harte  localized  it,  and  California  became  the  first  ro 
mantic  region  that  was  lifted  into  literature  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  short  story.  Harris  folklorized  it, 
the  Uncle  Remus  stories  not  only  bringing  the  folk 
tales  of  the  negro  into  literature  but  making  possible 
at  the  same  time  the  scientific  study  of  negro  folklore. 
O.  Henry  socialized  it,  leaving  it  the  most  flexible  and 
responsive  organon  of  social  reaction  that  American 
literature  has  to  its  credit.  Poe's  contribution  was  un 
like  any  of  these.  He  retold  no  legends,  he  looked 
askance  at  allegory,  he  brought  no  locality  into  litera 
ture,  he  saw  no  career  for  art  in  folklore,  and  he  found 

238 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES     239 

his  creative  inspiration  not  in  the  changing  moods  and 
whims  of  society  about  him  but  in  the  unchanging  vi 
sions  and  questionings  within.  His  central  contribution 
to  the  new  form  was  not  content  but  structure.  Poe 
standardized  the  short  story. 

This  distinction,  if  just,  invalidates  to  a  degree  the 
usual  classification  of  Poe's  stories  according  to  top 
ical  content,  or  at  least  renders  such  classification  less 
helpful  than  the  classification  based  on  structure. 
Irving,  Hawthorne,  Harte,  Harris  and  O.  Henry  are 
rightly  studied  in  their  themes,  for  they  not  only  iden 
tified  themselves  with  these  themes  but  illuminated  each 
theme  with  a  new  popular  interest  and  a  steadily  en 
larging  significance.  Poe  did  not  do  this.  It  is  well 
to  know  his  themes  but  better  still  to  know  the  prin 
ciples  of  his  architecture. 

"Poe's  tales,"  says  Nettleton,1  taking  his  cue  from 
topic,  "are  usually  divided  into  classes.  Of  the  'Tales 
of  Death,'  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher  and  Ligeia 
are,  in  unity  of  tone  and  intensifying  force  toward  the 
climax,  almost  flawless.  Poe  strove  not  so  much  to 
tell  a  story  as  to  produce  an  effect — in  one*  of  utter 
desolation,  in  the  other,  of  despair.  Of  the  'Old 
World  Romances/  the  most  noteworthy  are  The 
Masque  of  the  Red  Death,  The  Cask  of  Amontillado, 
and  The  Assignation.  Terror  is  the  note  of  the  first, 
vengeance  of  the  second,  and  of  the  third  sensuous- 
ness.  Of  the  Tales  of  Conscience/  Poe  preferred 
William  Wilson  and  The  Black  Cat.  While  Haw 
thorne  turned  to  the  spiritual  allegory  of  the  con 
science,  Poe  turned  rather  to  physical  horrors.  In  the 

^-Specimens  of  the  Short  Story,  by  George  Henry  Net 
tleton  (1001),  p.  80. 


240  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Tales  of  Pseudo-Science,'  Poe  sought  the  verisimil 
itude  of  Defoe  and  Swift.  Perhaps  his  greatest  suc 
cesses  are  The  MS.  Found  in  a  Bottle  and  A  Descent 
into  the  Maelstrom.  In  these  and  many  other  similar 
tales  Poe  furnished  the  inspiration  for  Jules  Verne's 
probable  impossibilities.  In  the  'Tales  of  Ratiocina 
tion/  Poe  laid  the  foundation  for  the  modern  school  of 
'detective  stories/  In  The  Murders  in  the  Rue 
Morgue f  The  Mystery  of  Marie  Roget,  The  Gold  Bug, 
and  The  Purloined  Letter,  Poe  solved  mysteries  by  the 
detective's  process  of  analysis." 

These  divisions  are  also  those  made  in  the  schol 
arly  edition  of  Stedman  and  Woodberry,  though  Net- 
tleton  omits  the  "Tales  of  Illusion,"  such  as  The  Pre 
mature  Burial,  and  the  "Tales  of  Extravaganza  and 
Caprice/'  beginning  with  The  Due  de  L'  Omelette  and 
ending  with  Mellonta  Tauta.  He  also  omits,  as  not 
belonging  to  the  short  story,  "Tales  of  Adventure  and 
Exploration,"  which  contain  Poe's  two  longest  narra 
tive  efforts,  The  Narrative  of  A.  Gordon  Pym  and 
The  Journal  of  Julius  Rodman.  But  a  simpler  classi 
fication  is  that  of  Leon  Kellner.  "Three  species  of 
stories,"  he  says,2  "are  to  be  distinguished:  'Psycho 
logical  Problems  for  Their  Own  Sake/  (Ligeia), 
'Pseudo-Scientific  Phantasies'  (A  Descent  into  the 
Maelstrom),  and  'Ingenious  Disentanglements'  (The 
Purloined  Letter).  An  unparalleled  boldness  of  in 
vention,  a  masterly  structure,  and  a  compelling  logic 
are  common  to  all." 

What,  then,  is  the  nature  of  the  masterly  struc 
ture,  the  compelling  logic,  common  to  the  three  spe- 

zGeschichte    der    nordamerikanischen    Literatur,    II,    n, 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES     241 

cies?  Read  again  Poe's  appraisal  of  Hawthorne, 
which  we  have  entitled  The  Technique  of  the  Short 
Story  (pages  149-158).  It  was  this  review  together 
with  his  consistent  practice  of  its  principles  that  gave 
Poe  his  priority  and  his  primacy  in  the  building1  of  the 
new  type.  "Poe  first  laid  down  the  principles,"  says 
Brander  Matthews,3  "which  governed  his  own  con 
struction  and  which  have  been  quoted  very  often,  be 
cause  they  have  been  accepted  by  the  masters  of  the 
short  story  in  every  modern  language."  Poe  was  the 
first  to  recognize  in  the  sketchy  tales  of  his  day  the 
possibilities  of  a  type  of  literature  as  distinctive  in  its 
role  and  as  exigent  in  its  form  as  the  novel  or  the 
drama  or  any  other  genre,  however  ancient  and  hon 
orable  its  lineage.  His  influence  on  the  new  type  was 
legislative,  executive,  and  judicial:  he  framed  the 
laws  of  its  structure,  he  carried  out  these  laws  in  his 
own  stories,  and  he  passed  authoritative  judgment  on 
those  who  obeyed  or  disobeyed  the  code  which  he  had 
himself  enacted. 

Making  no  attempt  to  circumscribe  the  topics 
amenable  to  short  story  treatment,  Poe  devoted  his 
genius  to  the  form  of  the  new  type.  It  must  converge 
cumulatively  and  undeviatingly  upon  one  and  only  one 
effect.  This  effect  being  the  goal,  the  writer  must  see 
it  and  move  straight  toward  it  from  the  beginning. 
The  old  way  was  to  begin  with  background  or  setting, 
with  character  or  characters,  with  plot  or  plan.  Poe 
saw  at  a  glance  that  these  three  essentials  of  a  short 
story  might  all  be  excellent  in  their  separate  kind  and 
yet  the  story  prove  unappealing  and  ineffective.  The 

*The  Short-Story:    Specimens  Illustrating  Its  Develop 
ment,  1907,  p.  25. 


242  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

triumph  of  the  story  was  to  inhere  not  in  the  individ 
ual  artistry  of  its  three  elements  but  in  the  higher  ar 
tistry  that,  in  blending  the  trinity,  should  make  it  il 
lustrative  of  and  convergent  upon  an  irresistible  unity. 
"In  the  presence  of  every  question,  considered  inde 
pendently  and  by  itself,"  says  General  Foch,4  "ask 
yourselves  first,  What  is  the  objective?"  It  was  pre 
cisely  this  question  that  Poe  made  central  and  con 
trolling  in  the  technique  of  the  short  story,  and  the 
history  of  the  short  story  has  ever  since  been  divided 
into  just  two  stages  of  development,  before  Poe  and 
after. 

To  feel  the  full  import  of  Poe's  doctrine  of  con 
vergence,  think  once  more  through  the  old  traditional 
"laws"  or  "rules"  of  the  drama,  the  epic,  the  novel,  the 
essay,  and  especially  the  public  address,  anciently 
called  the  oration.  Would  not  these  forms  be  vitalized 
by  the  same  fusing  and  re-creating  process?  Has 
there  not  grown  up  about  each  of  them  a  corpus  of 
rules  that  has  become  an  end  in  itself?  Confront 
them  with  the  question,  "What  effect,  what  objective, 
what  impassioned  purpose,  what  vision  and  what  vis 
ualized  audience  called  you  into  being?"  and  the  com 
placent  answer  would  be,  "None  at  all.  We  are 
conformists.  We  point  backward  to  the  canons  of  a 
long-perfected  art,  not  forward  to  a  merely  projected 
effect."  The  time  is  coming  when,  even  if  the  short 
story  as  a  separate  type  of  literature  should  perish, 
Poe's  distinction  will  live  in  the  energized  life  that  it 
will  have  imparted  to  every  form  of  human  effort  that 
seeks  a  definite  and  progressive  goal.  So  far  from 
making  technique  disproportionately  controlling,  Poe's 

*The  Principles  of  War  (1918),  p.  23. 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES     243 

special  distinction  is  that  he  deprived  it  of  all  authority 
in  itself  and  made  it  the  humble  servitor  of  previ- 
sioned  effect. 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  that  while  Poe's  stories 
fall  into  many  topical  divisions,  he  exemplified  only 
two  structural  types.  He  began  with  the  story  in  which 
the  last  paragraph  is  the  key.  The  suspense  is  cumu 
lative  from  the  beginning  and  is  relieved  only  at  the 
end.  This  is  the  type  of  story  that  O.  Henry  has  il 
lustrated  with  a  brilliancy  and  resourcefulness  that 
have  led  not  a  few  critics  to  see  in  his  work  the  discov 
ery  of  a  new  territory  rather  than  the  happy  coloniza 
tion  of  an  old.  This  kind  of  story  is  necessarily  short 
because  suspense,  especially  the  tragic  kind  that  Poe 
frequently  imposes,  becomes  burdensome  if  the  finale 
is  needlessly  or  heedlessly  delayed.  Masterpieces  of 
this  type  are  The  MS.  Found  in  a  Bottle,  Berenice, 
Morella,  The  Assignation,  A  Descent  into  the  Mael- 
strom,  Ligeia,  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher,  Wil 
liam  Wilson,  The  Masque  of  the  Red  Death,  The  Pit 
and  the  Pendulum,  The  Tell-Tale  Heart,  The  Black 
Cat,  and  The  Cask  of  Amontillado.  The  first  was 
written  in  1833,  the  last  in  1846.  We  may  call  this  the 
cuneiform  type  because  it  is  wedge-shaped,  coming  to 
a  point  or  edge  at  the  end.  Perhaps,  if  we  think  of 
background,  plot,  and  character  as  narrowing  upward 
to  the  apex  or  point  of  culminating  effect,  a  better 
name  would  be  the  A  type. 

The  second  type  preserves  suspense  and  illustrates 
totality  of  effect  as  successfully  as  the  A  type;  but 
there  is  a  pause  in  the  middle  of  the  story :  a  part  of 
the  denouement  has  been  glimpsed  but  not  the  whole. 
Curiosity  is  not  relaxed  but  released  for  a  more  in- 


244  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

tense  effort.  If  a  murder  has  been  committee!,  par? 
one  of  the  story  ends  with  the  mystery  apparently  in 
soluble  but  with  curiosity  projected  over  to  part  two  in 
which  there  is  a  progressive  and  satisfying  solution. 
If  a  buried  treasure  or  a  stolen  letter  is  sought,  part 
one  ends  with  its  finding;  part  two  tells  how  it  was 
found.  You  may  bend  back  the  second  part  over  the 
first  part  and  the  two  will  be  found  to  correspond  in 
structure  about  as  an  itemized  letter  of  inquiry  corre 
sponds  to  the  similarly  itemized  reply.  Stories  of  this 
kind  are  longer  than  those  of  the  A  type  because  there 
are  two  processes,  tying  and  untying,  complication  and 
explication,  enciphering  and  deciphering.  If  the  A 
type  is  more  artistic  in  the  accepted  sense,  the  second 
type  is  more  ingenious,  more  intellectual,  appealing  as 
it  does  to  the  puzzle-solving  instinct  that  every  reader 
has  to  a  degree.  Poe  called  the  second  type  "Tales 
of  Ratiocination"  (see  page  240)  and  from  them 
sprang  the  modern  detective  story.  The  first  master 
piece  of  this  type,  The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue, 
was  written  in  1841  ;  the  last  The  Purloined  Letter,  in 
1845.  If  we  call  the  first  type  cuneiform,  we  may  call 
this  type  insectiform,  because,  as  in  insects,  there  is  an 
apparent  cut  or  dip  inward  near  the  middle  of  the 
body.  But  if  A  represent  the  structure  of  the  first 
type,  B  may  well  represent  the  structure  of  the  second 
type,  the  two  semicircles  of  the  letter  picturing  the 
two  movements  of  the  story  toward  its  preordained 
conclusion.  The  meeting  of  the  two  semicircles  is 
where  complication  ends  and  explication  begins.  The 
poems,  by  the  way,  belong  prevailingly  to  the  A  type, 
The  Haunted  Palace  alone  suggesting  the  B  type. 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES     245 

II 

The  two  stories  that  follow  represent  respectively 
the  A  type  and  the  B  type.  To  the  prospective  writer 
of  short  stories  as  well  as  to  the  general  reader,  a 
study  of  Poe's  two  structural  routes  climbing  to  a 
common  peak  of  effect  will  prove  a  constant  quicken 
ing  and  enlargement  of  narrative  power. 

LIGEIA  (1838) 

And  the  will  therein  lieth,  which  dieth  not.  Who  know- 
eth  the  mysteries  of  the  will,  with  its  vigor?  For  God  is  but 
a  great  will  pervading  all  things  by  nature  of  its  intentness. 
Man  doth  not  yield  himself  to  the  angels,  nor  unto  death 
utterly,  save  only  through  the  weakness  of  his  feeble  will. — 
JOSEPH  GLANVILL. 

[The  text  is  found  in  the  introductory  quotation 
from  Joseph  Glanvill.  Charles  F.  Richardson,  in  the 
Arnheim  Edition  of  Poe,  says :  "The  limner  of  death 
[Poe]  was  what  he  was  because  he  insisted  that  death 
must  yield  to  the  forceful  self-assertion  of  a  quenchless 
soul  ...  In  one  thing  his  name  must  rank  high 
in  the  spiritual  movements  of  his  time  and  of  all  time : 
his  insistence  upon  the  earned  perpetuity  of  personal 
assertion.  The  individual  will  live  because  it  wills  to 
live;  that  is  his  gospel  from  first  to  last."  It  is  cer 
tainly,  his  gospel  in  Ligeia  and  its  prototype,  Morella 
(1835).  These  two  stories  make  an  interesting  com 
parative  study,  both  developing  the  same  theme  of  will 
victorious  over  death  and  both  being  perfect  examples 
of  the  A  type  of  structure.  Philip  Pendleton  Cooke 
wrote  Poe  that  Ligeia  would  have  been  a  better  story 
if  the  reader  had  been  made  more  gradually  aware  of 
the  change  from  Rowena  to  Ligeia  and  "if  Rowena's 
bodily  form  had  been  retained  as  a  shell  or  case  for 


246  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

the  disembodied  Lady  Ligeia."  Poe  replied:  "You 
are  right —  and  this  idea  was  mine — had  I  never  writ 
ten  before  I  should  have  adopted  it — but  then  there  is 
Morella. . .  Since  Morella  is  upon  record  I  will  suffer 
Ligeia  to  remain  as  it  is."  Seven  years  later  he  writes 
to  Cooke :  "The  loftiest  kind  [of  tale]  is  that  of  the 
highest  imagination — and,  for  this  reason  only,  Ligeia 
may  be  called  my  best  tale.  I  have  much  improved 
this  last  since  you  saw  it  and  I  mail  you  a  copy,  as  well 
as  a  copy  of  my  best  specimen  of  analysis — The  Phi 
losophy  of  Composition"  The  edition  of  Ligeia  that 
Poe  sent  to  Cooke  is  the  one  here  reproduced.  See 
also  the  note  introducing  The  Conqueror  Worm, 
pages  217-219.] 

I  cannot,  for  my  soul,  remember  how,  when,  or 
even  precisely  where,  I  first  became  acquainted  with 
the  Lady  Ligeia.  Long  years  have  since  elapsed,  and 
my  memory  is  feeble  through  much  suffering.  Or, 
perhaps,  I  cannot  now  bring  these  points  to  mind,  be 
cause  in  truth  the  character  of  my  beloved,  her  rare 
learning,  her  singular  yet  placid  cast  of  beauty,  and  the 
thrilling  and  enthralling  eloquence  of  her  low  musical 
language,  made  their  way  into  my  heart  by  paces  so 
steadily  and  stealthily  progressive  that  they  have  been 
unnoticed  and  unknown.  Yet  I  believe  that  I  met  her 
first  and  most  frequently  in  some  large,  old,  decaying 
city  near  the  Rhine.  Of  her  family  I  have  surely 
heard  her  speak.  That  it  is  of  a  remotely  ancient  date 
cannot  be  doubted.  Ligeia!  Ligeia!  Buried  in 
studies  of  a  nature  more  than  all  else  adapted  to 
deaden  impressions  of  the  outward  world,  it  is  by  that 
sweet  word  alone — by  Ligeia — that  I  bring  before 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES    247 

mine  eyes  in  fancy  the  image  of  her  who  is  no  more. 
And  now,  while  I  write,  a  recollection  flashes  upon  me 
that  I  have  never  known  the  paternal  name  of  her  who 
was  my  friend  and  my  betrothed,  and  who  became  the 
partner  of  my  studies,  and  finally  the  wife  of  my 
bosom.  Was  it  a  playful  charge  on  the  part  of  my 
Ligeia?  or  was  it  a  test  of  my  strength  of  affection, 
that  I  should  institute  no  inquiries  upon  this  point  ?  or 
was  it  rather  a  caprice  of  my  own — a  wildly  romantic 
offering  on  the  shrine  of  the  most  passionate  devotion  ? 
I  but  indistinctly  recall  the  fact  itself — what  wonder 
that  I  have  utterly  forgotten  the  circumstances  which 
originated  or  attended  it?  And,  indeed,  if  ever  that 
spirit  which  is  entitled  Romance — if  ever  she,  the  wan 
and  the  misty-winged  Ashtophet  of  idolatrous  Egypt, 
presided,  as  they  tell,  over  marriage  ill-omened,  then 
most  surely  she  presided  over  mine. 

There  is  one  dear  topic,  however,  on  which  my 
memory  fails  me  not.  It  is  the  person  of  Ligeia.  In 
stature  she  was  tall,  somewhat  slender,  and,  in  her  lat 
ter  days,  even  emaciated.  I  would  in  vain  attempt  to 
portray  the  majesty,  the  quiet  ease,  of  her  demeanor, 
or  the  incomprehensible  lightness  and  elasticity  of  her 
footfall.  She  came  and  departed  as  a  shadow.  I  was 
never  made  aware  of  her  entrance  into  my  closed 
study,  save  by  the  dear  music  of  her  low  sweet  voice, 
as  she  placed  her  marble  hand  upon  my  shoulder.  In 
beauty  of  face  no  maiden  ever  equalled  her.  It  was 
the  radiance  of  an  opium-dream — an  airy  and  spirit- 
lifting  vision  more  wildly  divine  than  the  fantasies 
which  hovered  about  the  slumbering  souls  of  the 
daughters  of  Delos.  Yet  her  features  were  not  of 
that  regular  mould  which  we  have  been  falsely  taught 


248  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

to  worship  in  the  classical  labors  of  the  heathen. 
"There  is  no  exquisite  beauty,"  says  Bacon,  Lord 
Verulam,  speaking  truly  of  all  the  forms  and  genera 
of  beauty,  "without  some  strangeness  in  the  propor 
tion."  Yet,  although  I  saw  that  the  features  of  Ligeia 
were  not  of  a  classic  regularity — although  I  perceived 
that  her  loveliness  was  indeed  "exquisite,"  and  felt 
that  there  was  much  of  "strangeness"  pervading  it, 
yet  I  have  tried  in  vain  to  detect  the  irregularity  and  to 
trace  home  my  own  perception  of  "the  strange."  I 
examined  the  contour  of  the  lofty  and  pale  forehead : 
it  was  faultless — how  cold  indeed  that  word  when  ap 
plied  to  a  majesty  so  divine! — the  skin  rivalling  the 
purest  ivory,  the  commanding  extent  and  repose,  the 
gentle  prominence  of  the  regions  above  the  temples; 
and  then  the  raven-black,  the  glossy,  the  luxuriant  and 
naturally  curling  tresses,  setting  forth  the  full  force 
of  the  Homeric  epithet,  "hyacinthine !"  I  looked  at  the 
delicate  outline  of  the  nose — and  nowhere  but  in  the 
graceful  medallions  of  the  Hebrews  had  I  beheld  a 
similar  perfection.  There  were  the  same  luxurious 
smoothness  of  surface,  the  same  scarcely  perceptible 
tendency  to  the  aquiline,  the  same  harmoniously 
curved  nostrils  speaking  the  free  spirit.  I  regarded 
the  sweet  mouth.  Here  was  indeed  the  triumph  of  all 
things  heavenly — the  magnificent  turn  of  the  short  up 
per  lip — the  soft,  voluptuous  slumber  of  the  under — 
the  dimples  which  sported,  and  the  color  which  spoke 
—the  teeth  glancing  back,  with  a  brilliancy  almost 
startling,  every  ray  of  the  holy  light  which  fell  upon 
them  in  her  serene  and  placid,  yet  most  exultingly  ra 
diant  of  all  smiles.  I  scrutinized  the  formation  of  the 
chin :  and  here,  too,  I  found  the  gentleness  of  breadth, 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES    249 

the  softness  and  the  majesty,  the  fulness  and  the  spir 
ituality,  of  the  Greek — the  contour  which  the  god 
Apollo  revealed  but  in  a  dream  to  Cleomenes,  the  son 
of  the  Athenian.  And  then  I  peered  into  the  large 
eyes  of  Ligeia. 

For  eyes  we  have  no  models  in  the  remotely  an 
tique.  It  might  have  been,  too,  that  in  these  eyes  of 
my  beloved  lay  the  secret  to  which  Lord  Verulam  al 
ludes.  They  were,  I  must  believe,  far  larger  than  the 
ordinary  eyes  of  our  own  race.  They  were  even  fuller 
than  the  fullest  of  the  gazelle  eyes  of  the  tribe  of  the 
valley  of  Nourjahad.  Yet  it  was  only  at  intervals — 
in  moments  of  intense  excitement — that  this  peculiarity 
became  more  than  slightly  noticeable  in  Ligeia.  And 
at  such  moments  was  her  beauty — in  my  heated  fancy 
thus  it  appeared  perhaps— the  beauty  of  beings  either 
above  or  apart  from  the  earth,  the  beauty  of  the  fabu 
lous  Houri  of  the  Turk.  The  hue  of  the  orbs  was  the 
most  brilliant  of  black,  and,  far  over  them,  hung  jetty 
lashes  of  great  length.  The  brows,  slightly  irregular 
in  outline,  had  the  same  tint.  The  "strangeness," 
however,  which  I  found  in  the  eyes,  was  of  a  nature 
distinct  from  the  formation,  or  the  color,  or  the  bril 
liancy  of  the  features,  and  must,  after  all,  be  referred 
to  the  expression.  Ah,  word  of  no  meaning!  behind 
whose  vast  latitude  of  mere  sound  we  intrench  our  ig 
norance  of  so  much  of  the  spiritual.  The  expression 
of  the  eyes  of  Ligeia!  How  for  long  hours  have  I 
pondered  upon  it !  How  have  I,  through  the  whole  of 
a  midsummer  night,  struggled  to  fathom  it !  What  was 
it — that  something  more  profound  than  the  well  of 
Democritus — which  lay  far  within  the  pupils  of  my 
beloved  ?  What  was  it  ?  I  was  possessed  with  a  pas- 


250  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

sion  to  discover.  Those  eyes !  those  large,  those  shin 
ing,  those  divine  orbs!  they  became  to  me  twin  stars 
of  Leda,  and  I  to  them  devoutest  of  astrologers. 

There  is  no  point,  among  the  many  incomprehen 
sible  anomalies  of  the  science  of  mind,  more  thrillingly 
exciting  than  the  fact — never,  I  believe,  noticed  in  the 
schools — that  in  our  endeavors  to  recall  to  memory 
something  long  forgotten,  we  often  find  ourselves 
upon  the  very  verge  of  remembrance,  without  being 
able,  in  the  end,  to  remember.  And  thus  how  |fre-« 
quently,  in  my  intense  scrutiny  of  Ligeia's  eyes,  have 
I  felt  approaching  the  full  knowledge  of  their  expres 
sion — felt  it  approaching,  yet  not  quite  be  mine,  and  so 
at  length  entirely  depart!  And  (strange,  oh  strange- 
est  mystery  of  all!)  I  found,  in  the  commonest  objects 
of  the  universe,  a  circle  of  analogies  to  that  expression. 
I  mean  to  say  that,  subsequently  to  the  period  when 
Ligeia's  beauty  passed  into  my  spirit,  there  dwelling 
as  in  a  shrine,  I  derived,  from  many  existences  in  the 
material  world,  a  sentiment  such  as  I  felt  always 
around,  within  me,  by  her  large  and  luminous  orbs* 
Yet  not  the  more  could  I  define  that  sentiment,  or 
analyze,  or  even  steadily  view  it.  I  recognized  it,  let 
me  repeat,  sometimes  in  the  survey  of  a  rapidly  grow 
ing  vine — in  the  contemplation  of  a  moth,  a  butterfly, 
a  chrysalis,  a  stream  of  running  water.  I  have  felt  it 
in  the  ocean ;  in  the  falling  of  a  meteor.  I  have  felt  it 
in  the  glances  of  unusually  aged  people.  And  there 
are  one  or  two  stars  in  heaven,  (one  especially,  a  star 
of  the  sixth  magnitude,  double  and  changeable,  to  be 
found  near  the  large  star  in  Lyra,)  in  a  telescopic 
scrutiny  of  which  I  have  been  made  aware  of  the  feel 
ing.  I  have  been  filled  with  it  by  certain  sounds  from 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES     251 

stringed  instruments,  and  not  unfrequently  by  pas 
sages  from  books.  Among  innumerable  other  in 
stances,  I  well  remember  something  in  a  volume  of 
Joseph  Glanvill's,  which  (perhaps  merely  from  its 
quaintness — who  shall  say?)  never  failed  to  inspire 
me  with  the  sentiment:  "And  the  will  therein  lieth, 
which  dieth  not.  Who  knoweth  the  mysteries  of  the 
will,  with  its  vigor  ?  For  God  is  but  a  great  will  per 
vading  all  things  by  nature  of  its  intentness.  Man 
doth  not  yield  him  to  the  angels,  nor  unto  death 
utterly,  save  only  through  the  weakness  of  his  feeble 
will." 

Length  of  years  and  subsequent  reflection  have 
enabled'  me  to  trace,  indeed,  some  remote  connection 
between  this  passage  in  the  English  moralist  and  a 
portion  of  the  character  of  Ligeia.  An  intensity  in 
thought,  action,  or  speech,  was  possibly,  in  her,  a  re 
sult,  or  at  least  an  index,  of  that  gigantic  volition 
which,  during  our  long  intercourse,  failed  to  give 
other  and  more  immediate  evidence  of  its  existence. 
Of  all  the  women  whom  I  have  ever  known,  she,  the 
outwardly  calm,  the  ever-placid  Ligeia,  was  the  most 
violently  a  prey  to  the  tumultuous  vultures  of  stern 
passion.  And  of  such  passion  I  could  form  no  esti 
mate,  save  by  the  miraculous  expansion  of  those  eyes 
which  at  once  so  delighted  and  appalled  me — by  the  al 
most  magical  melody,  modulation,  distinctness,  and 
placidity  of  her  very  low  voice — and  by  the  fierce 
energy  (rendered  doubly  effective  by  contrast  with  her 
manner  of  utterance)  of  the  wild  words  which  she 
habitually  uttered. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  learning  of  Ligeia :  it  was  im 
mense — such  as  I  have  never  known  in  woman.  In 


252  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

the  classical  tongues  was  she  deeply  proficient,  and  as 
far  as  my  own  acquaintance  extended  in  regard  to  the 
modern  dialects  of  Europe,  I  have  never  known  her  at 
fault.  Indeed  upon  any  theme  of  the  most  admired, 
because  simply  the  most  abstruse  of  the  boasted  erudi 
tion  of  the  academy,  have  I  ever  found  Ligeia  at  fault  ? 
How  singularly,  how  thrillingly,  this  one  point  in  the 
nature  of  my  wife  has  forced  itself,  at  this  late  period 
only,  upon  my  attention!  I  said  her  knowledge  was 
such  as  I  have  never  known  in  woman — but  where 
breathes  the  man  who  has  traversed,  and  successfully, 
all  the  wide  areas  of  moral,  physical,  and  mathematical 
science?  I  saw  not  then  what  I  now  clearly  perceive, 
that  the  acquisitions  of  Ligeia  were  gigantic,  were  as 
tounding;  yet  I  was  sufficiently  aware  of  her  infinite 
supremacy  to  resign  myself,  with  a  child-like  confi 
dence,  to  her  guidance  through  the  chaotic  world  of 
metaphysical  investigation  at  which  I  was  most  busily 
occupied  during  the  earlier  years  of  our  marriage. 
With  how  vast  a  triumph,  with  how  vivid  a  delight, 
with  how  much  of  all  that  is  ethereal  in  hope,  did  I  feel, 
as  she  bent  over  me  in  studies  but  little  sought — but 
less  known — that  delicious  vista  by  slow  degrees  ex 
panding  before  me,  down  whose  long,  gorgeous,  and 
all  untrodden  path,  I  might  at  length  pass  onward  to 
the  goal  of  a  wisdom  too  divinely  precious  not  to  be 
forbidden ! 

How  poignant,  then,  must  have  been  the  grief  with 
which,  after  some  years,  I  beheld  my  well-grounded 
expectations  take  wings  to  themselves  and  fly  away ! 
Without  Ligeia  I  was  but  as  a  child  groping  benighted. 
Her  presence,  her  readings  alone,  rendered  vividly 
luminous  the  many  mysteries  of  the  transcendentalism 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES    253 

in  which  we  were  immersed.  Wanting  the  radiant 
lustre  of  her  eyes,  letters,  lambent  and  golden,  grew 
duller  than  Saturnian  lead.  And  now  those  eyes  shone 
less  and  less  frequently  upon  the  pages  over  which  I 
pored.  Ligeia  grew  ill.  The  wild  eyes  blazed  with  a 
too — too  glorious  effulgence;  the  pale  fingers  became 
of  the  transparent  waxen  hue  of  the  grave ;  and  the 
blue  veins  upon  the  lofty  forehead  swelled  and  sank 
impetuously  with  the  tides  of  the  most  gentle  emotion. 
I  saw  that  she  must  die — and  I  struggled  desperately 
in  spirit  with  the  grim  Azrael.  And  the  struggles  of 
the  passionate  wife  were,  to  my  astonishment,  even 
more  energetic  than  my  own.  There  had  been  much 
in  her  stern  nature  to  impress  me  with  the  belief  that 
to  her,  death  would  have  come  without  its  terrors; 
but  not  so.  Words  are  impotent  to  convey  any  just 
idea  of  the  fierceness  of  resistance  with  which  she 
wrestled  with  the  Shadow.  I  groaned  in  anguish  at 
the  pitiable  spectacle.  I  would  have  soothed — I  would 
have  reasoned ;  but,  in  the  intensity  of  her  wild  desire 
for  life — for  life — but  for  life — solace  and  reason 
were  alike  the  uttermost  of  folly.  Yet  not  until  the 
last  instance,  amid  the  most  convulsive  writhings  of 
her  fierce  spirit,  was  shaken  the  external  placidity  of 
her  demeanor.  Her  voice  grew  more  gentle — grew 
more  low — yet  I  would  not  wish  to  dwell  upon  the 
wild  meaning  of  the  quietly  uttered  words.  My  brain 
reeled  as  I  hearkened,  entranced,  to  a  melody  more 
than  mortal — to  assumptions  and  aspirations  which 
mortality  had  never  before  known. 

That  she  loved  me  I  should  not  have  doubted ;  and 
I  might  have  been  easily  aware  that,  in  a  bosom  such 
as  hers,  love  would  have  reigned  no  ordinary  passion. 


254  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

But  in  death  only  was  I  fully  impressed  with  the 
strength  of  her  affection.  For  long  hours,  detaining 
my  hand,  would  she  pour  out  before  me  the  over 
flowing  of  a  heart  whose  more  than  passionate  devo 
tion  amounted  to  idolatry.  How  had  I  deserved  to  be 
so  blessed  by  such  confessions?  how  had  I  deserved 
to  be  so  cursed  with  the  removal  of  my  beloved  in  the 
hour  of  her  making  them?  But  upon  this  subject  I 
cannot  bear  to  dilate.  Let  me  say  only,  that  in  Li- 
geia's  more  than  womanly  abandonment  to  a  love,  alas ! 
all  unmerited,  all  unworthily  bestowed,  I  at  length 
recognized  the  principle  of  her  longing  with  so  wildly 
earnest  a  desire  for  the  life  which  was  now  fleeing 
so  rapidly  away.  It  is  this  \vild  longing,  it  is  this 
eager  vehemence  of  desire  for  life — but  for  life,  that 
I  have  no  power  to  portray,  no  utterance  capable  of 
expressing. 

At  high  noon  of  the  night  in  which  she  departed, 
beckoning  me  peremptorily  to  her  side,  she  bade  me 
repeat  certain  verses  composed  by  herself  not  many 
days  before.  I  obeyed  her.  They  were  these:  [See 
The  Conqueror  Worm,  pages  219-220.] 

"O  God !"  half  shrieked  Ligeia,  leaping  to  her  feet 
and  extending  her  arms  aloft  with  a  spasmodic  move 
ment,  as  I  made  an  end  of  these  lines — "O  God!  O 
Divine  Father!  shall  these  things  be  undeviatingly 
so?  shall  this  conqueror  be  not  once  conquered?  Are 
we  not  part  and  parcel  in  Thee?  Who — who  know- 
eth  the  mysteries  of  the  will  with  its  vigor?  'Man 
doth  not  yield  him  to  the  angels,  nor  unto  death 
utterly,  save  only  through  the  weakness  of  his  feeble 
will/  " 

And  now,  as  if  exhausted  with  emotion,  she  suf- 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES     255 

fered  her  white  arms  to  fall,  and  returned  solemnly  to 
her  bed  of  death.  And  as  she  breathed  her  last  sighs, 
there  came  mingled  with  them  a  low  murmur  from  her 
lips.  I  bent  to  them  my  ear,  and  distinguished,  again, 
the  concluding  words  of  the  passage  in  Glanvill: 
"Man  doth  not  yield  him  to  the  angels,  nor  unto  death 
utterly,  save  only  through  the  weakness  of  his  feeble 
will" 

She  died:  and  I,  crushed  into  the  very  dust  with 
sorrow,  could  no  longer  endure  the  lonely  desolation 
of  my  dwelling  in  the  dim  and  decaying  city  by  the 
Rhine.  I  had  no  lack  of  what  the  world  calls  wealth. 
Ligeia  had  brought  me  far  more,  very  far  more,  than 
ordinarily  falls  to  the  lot  of  mortals.  After  a  few 
months,  therefore,  of  weary  and  aimless  wandering,  I 
purchased,  and  put  in  some  repair,  an  abbey,  which  I 
shall  not  name,  in  one  of  the  wildest  and  least  fre 
quented  portions  of  fair  England.  The  gloomy  and 
dreary  grandeur  of  the  building,  the  almost  savage 
aspect  of  the  domain,  the  many  melancholy  and  time- 
honored  memories  connected  with  both,  had  much  in 
unison  with  the  feelings  of  utter  abandonment  which 
had  driven  me  into  that  remote  and  unsocial  region  of 
the  country.  Yet  although  the  external  abbey,  with 
its  verdant  decay  hanging  about  it,  suffered  but  little 
alteration,  I  gave  way  with  a  child-like  perversity,  and 
perchance  with  a  faint  hope  of  alleviating  my  sorrows, 
to  a  display  of  more  than  regal  magnificence  within. 
For  such  follies,  even  in  childhood,  I  had  imbibed  a 
taste,  and  now  they  came  back  to  me  as  if  in  the 
dotage  of  grief.  Alas,  I  feel  how  much  even  of  incipi 
ent  madness  might  have  been  discovered  in  the  gor 
geous  and  fantastic  draperies,  in  the  solemn  carvings 


256  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

of  Egypt,  in  the  wild  cornices  and  furniture,  in  the 
Bedlam  patterns  of  the  carpets  of  tufted  gold !  I  had 
become  a  bounden  slave  in  the  trammels  of  opium, 
and  my  labors  and  my  orders  had  taken  a  coloring 
from  my  dreams.  But  these  absurdities  I  must  not 
pause  to  detail.  Let  me  speak  only  of  that  one  cham 
ber  ever  accursed,  whither,  in  a  moment  of  mental 
alienation,  I  led  from  the  altar  as  my  bride — as  the 
successor  of  the  unforgotten  Ligeia — the  fair-haired 
and  blue-eyed  Lady  Rowena  Trevanion,  of  Tremaine. 
There  is  no  individual  portion  of  the  architecture 
and  decoration  of  that  bridal  chamber  which  is  not 
now  visibly  before  me.  Where  were  the  souls  of  the 
haughty  family  of  the  bride,  when,  through  thirst  of 
gold,  they  permitted  to  pass  the  threshold  of  an  apart 
ment  so  bedecked,  a  maiden  and  a  daughter  so  be 
loved?  I  have  said  that  I  minutely  remember  the 
details  of  the  chamber — yet  I  am  sadly  forgetful  on 
topics  of  deep  moment ;  and  here  there  was  no  system, 
no  keeping,  in  the  fantastic  display,  to  take  hold  upon 
the  memory.  The  room  lay  in  a  high  turret  of  the 
castellated  abbey,  was  pentagonal  in  shape,  and  of 
capacious  size.  Occupying  the  whole  southern  face  of 
the  pentagon  was  the  sole  window — an  immense  sheet 
of  unbroken  glass  from  Venice — a  single  pane,  and 
tinted  of  a  leaden  hue,  so  that  the  rays  of  either  the 
sun  or  moon,  passing  through  it,  fell  with  a  ghastly 
lustre  on  the  objects  within.  Over  the  upper  portion 
of  this  huge  window  extended  the  trellis-work  of  an 
aged  vine,  which  clambered  up  the  massy  walls  of  the 
turret.  The  ceiling,  of  gloomy-looking  oak,  was  ex 
cessively  lofty,  vaulted,  and  elaborately  fretted  with 
the  wildest  and  most  grotesque  specimens  of  a  semi- 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES    257 

Gothic,  semi-Druidical  device.  From  out  the  most 
central  recess  of  this  melancholy  vaulting  depended, 
by  a  single  chain  of  gold  with  long  links,  a  huge 
censer  of  the  same  metal,  Saracenic  in  pattern,  and 
with  many  perforations  so  contrived  that  there  writhed 
in  and  out  of  them,  as  if  endued  with  a  serpent  vitality, 
a  continual  succession  of  parti-colored  fires. 

Some  few  ottomans  and  golden  candelabra,  of  East 
ern  figure,  were  in  various  stations  about;  and  there 
was  the  couch,  too — the  bridal  couch — of  an  Indian 
model,  and  low,  and  sculptured  of  solid  ebony,  with  a 
pall-like  canopy  above.  In  each  of  the  angles  of  the 
chamber  stood  on  end  a  gigantic  sarcophagus  of  black 
granite,  from  the  tombs  of  the  kings  over  against 
Luxor,  with  their  aged  lids  full  of  immemorial  sculp 
ture.  But  in  the  draping  of  the  apartment  lay,  alas! 
the  chief  fantasy  of  all.  The  lofty  walls,  gigantic 
in  height,  even  unproportionably  so,  were  hung  from 
summit  to  foot,  in  vast  folds,  with  a  heavy  and 
massive-looking  tapestry — tapestry  of  a  material 
which  was  found  alike  as  a  carpet  on  the  floor,  as 
a  covering  for  the  ottomans  and  the  ebony  bed,  as 
a  canopy  for  the  bed,  and  as  the  gorgeous  volutes  of 
the  curtains  which  partially^  shaded  the  window.  The 
material  was  the  richest  cloth  of  gold.  It  was 
spotted  all  over,  at  irregular  intervals,  with  arabesque 
figures,  about  a  foot  in  diameter,  and  wrought  upon 
the  cloth  in  patterns  of  the  most  jetty  black.  But 
these  figures  partook  of  the  true  character  of  the 
arabesque  only  when  regarded  from  a  single  point  of 
view.  By  a  contrivance  now  common,  and  indeed 
traceable  to  a  very  remote  period  of  antiquity,  they 
were  made  changeable  in  aspect.  To  one  entering  the 


258  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

room,  they  bore  the  appearance  of  simple  monstrosi 
ties;  but  upon  a  farther  advance,  this  appearance 
gradually  departed;  and,  step  by  step,  as  the  visitor 
moved  his  station  in  the  chamber,  he  saw  himself 
surrounded  by  an  endless  succession  of  the  ghastly 
forms  which  belong  to  the  superstition  of  the  Nor 
man,  or  arise  in  the  guilty  slumbers  of  the  monk. 
The  phantasmagoric  effect  was  vastly  heightened  by 
the  artificial  introduction  of  a  strong  continual  cur 
rent  of  wind  behind  the  draperies,  giving  a  hideous 
and  uneasy  animation  to  the  whole. 

In  halls  such  as  these,  in  a  bridal  chamber  such  as 
this,  I  passed,  with  the  Lady  of  Tremaine,  the  unhal 
lowed  hours  of  the  first  month  of  our  marriage — 
passed  them  with  but  little  disquietude.  That  my 
wife  dreaded  the  fierce  moodiness  of  my  temper — 
that  she  shunned  me,  and  loved  me  but  little — I 
could  not  help  perceiving ;  but  it  gave  me  rather  pleas 
ure  than  otherwise.  I  loathed  her  with  a  hatred 
belonging  more  to  demon  than  to  man.  My  memory 
flew  back  (oh,  with  what  intensity  of  regret!)  to 
Ligeia,.  the  beloved,  the  august,  the  beautiful,  the 
entombed.  I  revelled  in  recollections  of  her  purity, 
of  her  wisdom,  of  her  lofty,  her  ethereal  nature,  of 
her  passionate,  her  idolatrous  love.  Now,  then,  did 
my  spirit  fully  and  freely  burn  with  more  than  all 
the  fires  of  her  own.  In  the  excitement  of  my  opium 
dreams,  (for  I  was  habitually  fettered  in  the  shackles 
of  the  drug)  I  would  call  aloud  upon  her  name,  dur 
ing  the  silence  of  the  night,  or  among  the  sheltered  re 
cesses  of  the  glens  by  day,  as  if,  through  the  wild 
eagerness,  the  solemn  passion,  the  consuming  ardor  of 
my  longing  for  the  departed,  I  could  restore  her  to 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES    259 

the  pathway  she  had  abandoned — ah,  could  it  be  for 
ever? — upon  the  earth. 

About  the  commencement  of  the  second  month  of 
the  marriage,  the  Lady  Rowena  was  attacked  with 
sudden  illness,  from  which  her  recovery  was  slow. 
The  fever  which  consumed  her  rendered  her  nights 
uneasy;  and  in  her  perturbed  state  of  half-slumber, 
she  spoke  of  sounds,  and  of  motions,  in  and  about  the 
chamber  of  the  turret,  which  I  concluded  had  no 
origin  save  in  the  distemper  of  her  fancy,  or  perhaps 
in  the  phantasmagoric  influences  of  the  chamber  itself. 
She  became  at  length  convalescent — finally,  well. 
Yet  but  a  brief  period  elapsed,  ere  a  second  more 
violent  disorder  again  threw  her  upon  a  bed  of  suffer 
ing;  and  from  this  attack  her  frame,  at  all  times 
feeble,  never  altogether  recovered.  Her  illnesses  were, 
after  this  epoch,  of  alarming  character,  and  of  more 
alarming  recurrence,  defying  alike  the  knowledge  and 
the  great  exertions  of  her  physicians.  With  the 
increase  of  the  chronic  disease,  which  had  thus  appar 
ently  taken  too  sure  hold  upon  her  constitution  to  be 
eradicated  by  human  means,  I  could  not  fail  to  ob 
serve  a  similar  increase  in  the  nervous  irritation  of 
her  temperament,  and  in  her  excitability  by  trivial 
causes  of  fear.  She  spoke  again,  and  now  more  fre 
quently  and  pertinaciously,  of  the  sounds — of  the  slight 
sounds — and  of  the  unusual  motions  among  the  tapes 
tries,  to  which  she  had  formerly  alluded. 

One  night,  near  the  closing  in  of  September,  she 
pressed  this  distressing  subject  with  more  than  usual 
emphasis  upon  my  attention.  She  had  just  awak 
ened  from  an  unquiet  slumber,  and  I  had  been  watch 
ing,  with  feelings  half  of  anxiety,  half  of  vague  terror, 


2<5o  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

the  workings  of  her  emaciated  countenance.  I  sat  by 
the  side  of  her  ebony  bed,  upon  one  of  the  ottomans 
of  India.  She  partly  arose,  and  spoke,  in  an  earnest 
low  whisper,  of  sounds  which  she  then  heard,  but 
which  I  could  not  hear — of  motions  which  she  then 
saw,  but  which  I  could  not  perceive.  The  wind  was 
rushing  hurriedly  behind  the  tapestries,  and  I  wished 
to  show  her  (what,  let  me  confess  it,  I  could  not  all 
believe)  that  those  almost  inarticulate  breathings,  and 
those  very  gentle  variations  of  the  figures  upon  the 
wall,  were  but  the  natural  effects  of  that  customary 
rushing  of  the  wind.  But  a  deadly  pallor,  overspread 
ing  her  face,  had  proved  to  me  that  my  exertions  to 
reassure  her  would  be  fruitless.  She  appeared  to  be 
fainting,  and  no  attendants  were  within  call.  I  re 
membered  where  was  deposited  a  decanter  of  light 
wine  which  had  been  ordered  by  her  physicians,  and 
hastened  across  the  chamber  to  procure  it.  But,  as  I 
stepped  beneath  the  light  of  the  censer,  two  circum 
stances  of  a  startling  nature  attracted  my  attention. 
I  had  felt  that  some  palpable  although  invisible  object 
had  passed  lightly  by  my  person ;  and  I  saw  that  there 
lay  upon  the  golden  carpet,  in  the  very  middle  of  the 
rich  lustre  thrown  from  the  censer,  a  shadow — a  faint, 
indefinite  shadow  of  angelic  aspect — such  as  might 
be  fancied  for  the  shadow  of  a  shade.  But  I  was  wild 
with  the  excitement  of  an  immoderate  dose  of  opium, 
and  heeded  these  things  but  little,  nor  spoke  of  them 
to  Rowena.  Having  found  the  wine,  I  recrossed  the 
chamber,  and  poured  out  a  gobletful,  which  I  held  to 
the  lips  of  the  fainting  lady.  She  had  now  partially 
recovered,  however,  and  took  the  vessel  herself,  while 
I  sank  upon  an  ottoman  near  me,  with  my  eyes  fas- 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES    261 

tened  upon  her  person.  It  was  then  that  I  became  dis 
tinctly  aware  of  a  gentle  footfall  upon  the  carpet,  and 
near  the  couch ;  and  in  a  second  thereafter,  as  Rowena 
was  in  the  act  of  raising  the  wine  to  her  lips,  I  saw, 
or  may  have  dreamed  that  I  saw,  fall  within  the  goblet, 
as  if  from  some  invisible  spring  in  the  atmosphere  of 
the  room,  three  or  four  large  drops  of  a  brilliant  and 
ruby-colored  fluid.  If  this  I  saw — not  so  Rowena.  She 
swallowed  the  wine  unhesitatingly,  and  I  forbore  to 
speak  to  her  of  a  circumstance  which  must  after  all,  I 
considered,  have  been  but  the  suggestion  of  a  vivid 
imagination,  rendered  morbidly  active  by  the  terror  of 
the  lady,  by  the  opium,  and  by  the  hour. 

Yet  I  cannot  conceal  it  from  my  own  perception 
that,  immediately  subsequent  to  the  fall  of  the  ruby- 
drops,  a  rapid  change  for  the  worse  took  place  in  the 
disorder  of  my  wife;  so  that,  on  the  third  subsequent 
night,  the  hands  of  her  menials  prepared  her  for  the 
tomb,  and  on  the  fourth,  I  sat  alone,  with  her  shrouded 
body,  in  that  fantastic  chamber  which  had  received  her 
as  my  bride.  Wild  visions,  opium-engendered,  flitted 
shadow-like  before  me.  I  gazed  with  unquiet  eye  upon 
the  sarcophagi  in  the  angles  of  the  room,  upon  the 
varying  figures  of  the  drapery,  and  upon  the  writhing 
of  the  parti-colored  fires  in  the  censer  overhead.  My 
eyes  then  fell,  as  I  called  to  mind  the  circumstances 
of  a  former  night,  to  the  spot  beneath  the  glare  of  the 
censer  where  I  had  seen  the  faint  traces  of  the  shadow. 
It  was  there,  however,  no  longer ;  and  breathing  with 
greater  freedom,  I  turned  my  glances  to  the  pallid  and 
rigid  figure  upon  the  bed.  Then  rushed  upon  me  a 
thousand  memories  of  Ligeia — and  then  came  back 
upon  my  heart,  with  the  turbulent  violence  of  a  flood, 


262  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

the  whole  of  that  unutterable  woe  with  which  I  had 
regarded  her  thus  enshrouded.  The  night  waned  ;  and 
still,  with  a  bosom  full  of  bitter  thoughts  of  the  one 
only  and  supremely  beloved,  I  remained  gazing  upon 
the  body  of  Rowena. 

It  might  have  been  midnight,  or  perhaps  earlier,  or 
later,  for  I  had  taken  no  note  of  time,  when  a  sob,  low, 
gentle,  but  very  distinct,  startled  me  from  my  revery. 
I  felt  that  it  came  from  the  bed  of  ebony — the  bed  of 
death.  I  listened  in  an  agony  of  superstitious  terror 
— but  there  was  no  repetition  of  the  sound.  I  strained 
my  vision  to  detect  any  motion  in  the  corpse — but 
there  was  not  the  slightest  perceptible.  Yet  I  could 
not  have  been  deceived.  I  had  heard  the  noise,  how 
ever  faint,  and  my  soul  was  awakened  within  me.  I 
resolutely  and  perseveringly  kept  my  attention  riveted 
upon  the  body.  Many  minutes  elapsed  before  any  cir 
cumstance  occurred  tending  to  throw  light  upon  the 
mystery.  At  length  it  became  evident  that  a  slight, 
a  very  feeble,  and  barely  noticeable  tinge  of  color  had 
flushed  up  within  the  cheeks,  and  along  the  sunken 
small  veins  of  the  eyelids.  Through  a  species  of  un 
utterable  horror  and  awe,  for  which  the  language  of 
mortality  has  no  sufficiently  energetic  expression,  I 
felt  my  heart  cease  to  beat,  my  limbs  grow  rigid 
where  I  sat.  Yet  a  sense  of  duty  finally  operated  to 
restore  my  self-possession.  I  could  no  longer  doubt 
that  we  had  been  precipitate  in  our  preparations — 
that  Rowena  still  lived.  It  was  necessary  that  some 
immediate  exertion  be  made ;  yet  the  turret  was  alto 
gether  apart  from  the  portion  of  the  abbey  tenanted 
by  the  servants — there  were  none  within  call — I  had 
no  means  of  summoning  them  to  my  aid  without  leav- 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES    263 

ing  the  room  for  many  minutes — and  this  I  could  not 
venture  to  do.  I  therefore  struggled  alone  in  my  en 
deavors  to  call  back  the  spirit  still  hovering.  In  a 
short  period  it  was  certain,  however,  that  a  relapse 
had  taken  place ;  the  color  disappeared  from  both  eye 
lid  and  cheek,  leaving  a  wanness  even  more  than  that 
of  marble ;  the  lips  became  doubly  shrivelled  and 
pinched  up  in  the  ghastly  expression  of  death ;  a  re 
pulsive  clamminess  and  coldness  overspread  rapidly 
the  surface  of  the  body ;  and  all  the  usual  rigorous 
stiffness  immediately  supervened.  I  fell  back  with  a 
shudder  upon  the  couch  from  which  I  had  been  so 
startlingly  aroused,  and  again  gave  myself  up  to  pas 
sionate  waking  visions  of  Ligeia. 

An  hour  thus  elapsed,  when  (could  it  be  possible?) 
I  was  a  second  time  aware  of  some  vague  sound  issu 
ing  from  the  region  of  the  bed.  I  listened — in  ex 
tremity  of  horror.  The  sound  came  again — it  was  a 
sigh.  Rushing  to  the  corpse,  I  saw — distinctly  saw — 
a  tremor  upon  the  lips.  In  a  minute  afterwards  they 
relaxed,  disclosing  a  bright  line  of  the  pearly  teeth. 
Amazement  now  struggled  in  my  bosom  with  the  pro 
found  awe  which  had  hitherto  reigned  there  alone. 
I  felt  that  my  vision  grew  dim,  that  my  reason  wan 
dered  ;  and  it  was  only  by  a  violent  effort  that  I  at 
length  succeeded  in  nerving  myself  to  the  task  which 
duty  thus  once  more  had  pointed  out.  There  was  now 
a  partial  glow  upon  the  forehead  and  upon  the  cheek 
and  throat ;  a  perceptible  warmth  pervaded  the  whole 
frame ;  there  was  even  a  slight  pulsation  at  the  heart. 
The  lady  lived',  and  with  redoubled  ardor  I  betook 
myself  to  the  task  of  restoration.  I  chafed  and  bathed 
the  temples  and  the  hands,  and  used  every  exertion 


264  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

which  experience,  and  no  little  medical  reading,  could 
suggest.  But  in  vain.  Suddenly,  the  color  fled,  the 
pulsation  ceased,  the  lips  resumed  the  expression  of 
the  dead,  and,  in  an  instant  afterward,  the  whole  body 
took  upon  itself  the  icy  chilliness,  the  livid  hue,  the 
intense  rigidity,  the  sunken  outline,  and  all  the  loath 
some  peculiarities  of  that  which  has  been,  for  many 
days,  a  tenant  of  the  tomb. 

And  again  I  sunk  into  visions  of  Ligeia — and 
again,  (what  marvel  that  I  shudder  while  I  write?) 
again  there  reached  my  ears  a  low  sob  from  the  region 
of  the  ebony  bed.  But  why  shall  I  minutely  detail 
the  unspeakable  horrors  of  that  night?  Why  shall  I 
pause  to  relate  how,  time  after  time,  until  near  the 
period  of  the  gray  dawn,  this  hideous  drama  of  revivi 
fication  was  repeated ;  how  each  terrific  relapse  was 
only  into  a  sterner  and  apparently  more  irredeemable 
death ;  how  each  agony  wore  the  aspect  of  a  struggle 
with  some  invisible  foe ;  and  how  each  struggle  was 
succeeded  by  I  know  not  what  of  wild  change  in  the 
personal  appearance  of  the  corpse?  Let  me  hurry  to 
a  conclusion. 

The  greater  part  of  the  fearful  night  had  worn 
away,  and  she  who  had  been  dead,  once  again  stirred — 
and  now  more  vigorously  than  hitherto,  although 
arousing  from  a  dissolution  more  appalling  in  its  utter 
helplessness  than  any.  I  had  long  ceased  to  struggle 
or  to  move,  and  remained  sitting  rigidly  upon  the  otto 
man,  a  helpless  prey  to  a  whirl  of  violent  emotions,  of 
which  extreme  awe  was  perhaps  the  least  terrible,  the 
least  consuming.  The  corpse,  I  repeat,  stirred,  and 
now  more  vigorously  than  before.  The  hues  of  life 
flushed  up  with  unwonted  energy  into  the  counte- 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES    265 

nance — the  limbs  relaxed — and,  save  that  the  eyelids 
were  yet  pressed  heavily  together,  and  that  the  band 
ages  and  draperies  of  the  grave  still  imparted  their 
charnel  character  to  the  figure,  I  might  have  dreamed 
that  Rowena  had  indeed  shaken  off,  utterly,  the  fetters 
of  Death.  But  if  this  idea  was  not,  even  then,  alto 
gether  adopted,  I  could  at  least  doubt  no  longer,  when, 
arising  from  the  bed,  tottering,  with  feeble  steps,  with 
closed  eyes,  and  with  the  manner  of  one  bewildered 
in  a  dream,  the  thing  that  was  enshrouded  advanced 
bodily  and  palpably  into  the  middle  of  the  apartment. 

I  trembled  not — I  stirred  not — for  a  crowd  of  un 
utterable  fancies  connected  with  the  air,  the  stature, 
the  demeanor  of  the  figure,  rushing  hurriedly  through 
my  brain,  had  paralyzed — had  chilled  me  into  stone. 
J  stirred  not — but  gazed  upon  the  apparition.  There 
was  a  mad  disorder  in  my  thoughts — a  tumult  un 
appeasable.  Could  it,  indeed,  be  the  living  Rowena 
who  confronted  me?  Could  it  indeed  be  Rowena  at 
all — the  fair-haired,  the  blue-eyed  Lady  Rowena 
Trevanion  of  Tremaine?  Why,  zvhy  should  I  doubt 
it?  The  bandage  lay  heavily  about  the  mouth — but 
then  might  it  not  be  the  mouth  of  the  breathing  Lady 
of  Tremaine?  And  the  cheeks — there  were  the  roses 
as  in  her  noon  of  life — yes,  these  might  indeed  be 
the  fair  cheeks  of  the  living  Lady  of  Tremaine. 
And  the  chin,  with  its  dimples,  as  in  health,  might 
it  not  be  hers  ?  but  Jiad  she  then  grown  taller  since  her 
malady?  What  inexpressible  madness  seized  me  with 
that  thought  ?  One  bound,  and  I  had  reached  her  feet ! 
Shrinking  from  my  touch,  she  let  fall  from  her  head 
the  ghastly  cerements  which  had  confined  it,  and 
there  streamed  forth,  into  the  rushing  atmosphere  of 


266  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

the  chamber,  huge  masses  of  long  and  dishevelled 
hair;  it  -was  blacker  than  the  wings  of  midnight!  And 
now  slowly  opened  the  eyes  of  the  figure  which  stood 
before  me.  "Here  then,  at  least,"  I  shrieked  aloud, 
"can  I  never — can  I  never  be  mistaken — these  are  the 
full,  and  the  black,  and  the  wild  eyes — of  my  lost  love 
— of  the  Lady — of  the  LADY  LIGEIA." 

THE   PURLOINED   LETTER    (1845) 
Nil  sapientiae   odiosius   acumine   nimio. — SENECA. 

[The  sub-title  or  enveloping  theme  might  well  be 
called  "The  Elusiveness  of  the  Obvious."  The  story 
is  the  last  of  the  tales  of  ratiocination  and,  like  all  of 
Poe's  stories  of  this  type,  is  poured  from  the  B  mould. 
There  is  an  unmistakable  note  of  autobiography  in 
Poe's  masterly  defense  of  the  poetical  and  mathema 
tical  faculties  conjoined.  "As  poet  and  mathema 
tician,"  says  Dupin,  "he  [the  Minister]  would  reason 
well ;  as  mere  mathematician,  he  could  not  have  rea 
soned  at  all."  Dupin,  more  fully  portrayed  in  The 
Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue,  is  Poe's  best  known 
character.  He  is  the  original  of  Doctor  Conan  Doyle's 
Sherlock  Holmes  and  of  all  the  other  notable  detec 
tives  in  recent  literature,  though  it  is  hardly  true,  as 
Leon  Kellner  puts  it,  that  "Conan  Doyle's  copy  of 
Poe's  Dupin,  the  now  ubiquitous  detective  genius, 
Sherlock  Holmes,  has  crowded  his  prototype  out  of 
the  memory  of  the  world."  It  is  one  of  the  curiosities 
of  literature  that  this  story  is  partly  responsible  for 
the  phrase,  "a  scrap  of  paper,"  which  assumed  so 
sinister  a  significance  at  the  beginning  of  the  World 
[War.  The  phrase  emerged  as  the  name  of  a  play  put 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES    267 

together  by  Sardou  in  1861  and  produced  in  New 
York  by  Lester  Wallack.  Sardou  called  his  play  Lcs 
pattes  de  mouche  but  it  was  a  blend  of  The  Gold-Bug 
and  The  Purloined  Letter.  As  "a  scrap  of  paper"  fig 
ures  prominently  in  the  former  story,  the  pnrase 
became  the  title  of  Sardou's  play  when  translated  into 
English.] 

At  Paris,  just  after  dark  one  gusty  evening  in  the 
autumn  of  18 — ,  I  was  enjoying  the  twofold  luxury  of 
meditation  and  a  meerschaum,  in  company  with  my 
friend  C.  Auguste  Dupin,  in  his  little  back  library,  or 
book  closet,  au  troiswme,  No.  33,  Rue  Dunot,  Fau 
bourg  St.  Germain.  For  one  hour  at  least  we  had 
maintained  a  profound  silence;  while  each,  to  any 
casual  observer,  might  have  seemed  intently  and  ex 
clusively  occupied  with  the  curling  eddies  of  smoke 
that  oppressed  the  atmosphere  of  the  chamber.  For 
myself,  however,  I  was  mentally  discussing  certain 
topics  which  had  formed  matter  for  conversation  be 
tween  us  at  an  earlier  period  of  the  evening;  I  mean 
the  affair  of  the  Rue  Morgue,  and  the  mystery  attend 
ing  the  murder  of  Marie  Roget.  I  looked  upon  it, 
therefore,  as  something  of  a  coincidence,  when  the 
door  of  our  apartment  was  thrown  open  and  admitted 

our  old  acquaintance,  Monsieur  G ,  the  Prefect  of 

the  Parisian  police. 

We  gave  him  a  hearty  welcome;  for  there  was 
nearly  half  as  much  of  the  entertaining  as  of  the  con 
temptible  about  the  man,  and  we  had  not  seen  him 
for  several  years.  We  had  been  sitting  in  the  dark, 
and  Dupin  now  arose  for  the  purpose  of  lighting  a 
lamp,  but  sat  down  again,  without  doing  so,  upon 


268  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

G 's  saying  that  he  had  called  to  consult  us,  or 

rather  to  ask  the  opinion  of  my  friend,  about  some 
official  business  which  had  occasioned  a  great  deal  of 
trouble. 

"If  it  is  any  point  requiring  reflection,"  observed 
Dupin,  as  he  forebore  to  enkindle  the  wick,  "we  shall 
examine  it  to  better  purpose  in  the  dark." 

"That  is  another  of  your  odd  notions,"  said  the 
Prefect,  who  had  a  fashion  of  calling  everything  "odd" 
that  was  beyond  his  comprehension,  and  thus  lived 
amid  an  absolute  legion  of  "oddities." 

"Very  true,"  said  Dupin,  as  he  supplied  his  visitor 
with  a  pipe,  and  rolled  towards  him  a  comfortable  chair. 

"And  what  is  the  difficulty  now  ?"  I  asked.  "Noth 
ing  more  in  the  assassination  way,  I  hope?" 

"Oh,  no ;  nothing  of  that  nature.  The  fact  is,  the 
business  is  very  simple  indeed,  and  I  make  no  doubt 
that  we  can  manage  it  sufficiently  well  ourselves ;  but 
then  I  thought  Dupin  would  like  to  hear  the  details 
of  it,  because  it  is  so  excessively  odd" 

"Simple  and  odd,"  said  Dupin. 

"Why,  yes ;  and  not  exactly  that,  either.  The  fact 
is,  we  have  all  been  a  good  deal  puzzled  because  the 
affair  is  so  simple,  and  yet  baffles  us  altogether." 

"Perhaps  it  is  the  very  simplicity  of  the  thing 
which  puts  you  at  fault,"  said  my  friend. 

"What  nonsense  you  do  talk!"  replied  the  Prefect, 
laughing  heartily. 

"Perhaps  the  mystery  is  a  little  too  plain,"  said 
Dupin. 

"Oh,  good  Heavens!  who  ever  heard  of  such  an 
idea?" 

"A  little  too  self-evident." 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES     269 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!— ha!  ha!  ha!— ho!  ho!  ho!"  roared 
our  visitor,  profoundly  amused.  "O  Dupin,  you  will 
be  the  death  of  me  yet !" 

"And  what,  after  all,  is  the  matter  on  hand?"  I 
asked. 

"Why,  I  will  tell  you,"  replied  the  Prefect,  as  he 
gave  a  long,  steady,  and  contemplative  puff,  and  set 
tled  himself  in  his  chair.  "I  will  tell  you  in  a  few 
words;  but,  before  I  begin,  let  me  caution  you  that 
this  is  an  affair  demanding  the  greatest  secrecy,  and 
that  I  should  most  probably  lose  the  position  I  now 
hold  were  it  known  that  I  confided  it  to  any  one." 

"Proceed,"  said  I. 

"Or  not,"  said  Dupin. 

"Well,  then ;  I  have  received  personal  information, 
from  a  very  high  quarter,  that  a  certain  document  of 
the  last  importance  has  been  purloined  from  the  royal 
apartments.  The  individual  who  purloined  it  is 
known;  this  beyond  a  doubt;  he  was  seen  to  take  it. 
It  is  known,  also,  that  it  still  remains  in  his 
possession." 

"How  is  this  known  ?"  asked  Dupin. 

"It  is  clearly  inferred,"  replied  the  Prefect,  "from 
the  nature  of  the  document,  and  from  the  non-appear 
ance  of  certain  results  which  would  at  once  arise  from 
its  passing  out  of  the  robber's  possession ;  that  is  to 
say,  from  his  employing  it  as  he  must  design  in  the 
end  to  employ  it." 

"Be  a  little  more  explicit,"  I  said. 

"Well,  I  may  venture  so  far  as  to  say  that  the  paper 
gives  its  holder  a  certain  power  in  a  certain  quarter 
where  such  power  is  immensely  valuable."  The  Pre 
fect  was  fond  of  the  cant  of  diplomacy. 


2/o  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

"Still  I  do  not  quite  understand,"  said  Dupin. 

"No  ?  well ;  the  disclosure  of  the  document  to  a 
third  person,  who  shall  be  nameless,  would  bring  in 
question  the  honor  of  a  personage  of  most  exalted 
station ;  and  this  fact  gives  the  holder  of  the  document 
an  ascendancy  over  the  illustrious  personage  whose 
honor  and  peace  are  so  jeopardized." 

"But  this  ascendancy,"  I  interposed,  "would  de 
pend  upon  the  robber's  knowledge  of  the  loser's  knowl 
edge  of  the  robber.  Who  would  dare — " 

"The  thief,"  said  G ,  "is  the  Minister  D , 

who  dares  all  things,  those  unbecoming  as  well  as 
those  becoming  a  man.  The  method  of  the  theft  was 
not  less  ingenious  than  bold.  The  document  in  ques 
tion — a  letter,  to  be  frank — had  been  received  by  the 
personage  robbed  while  alone  in  the  royal  boudoir. 
During  its  perusal  she  was  suddenly  interrupted  by 
the  entrance  of  the  other  exalted  personage,  from 
whom  especially  it  was  her  wish  to  conceal  it.  After 
a  hurried  and  vain  endeavor  to  thrust  it  in  a  drawer, 
she  was  forced  to  place  it,  open  as  it  was,  upon  a  table. 
The  address,  however,  was  uppermost,  and,  the  con 
tents  thus  unexposed,  the  letter  escaped  notice.  At 

this  juncture  enters  the  Minister  D .    His  lynx  eye 

immediately  perceives  the  paper,  recognizes  the  hand 
writing  of  the  address,  observes  the  confusion  of  the 
personage  addressed,  and  fathoms  her  secret.  After 
some  business  transaction,  hurried  through  in  his  or 
dinary  manner,  he  produces  a  letter  somewhat  similar 
to  the  one  in  question,  opens  it,  pretends  to  read  it, 
and  then  places  it  in  close  juxtaposition  to  the  other. 
Again  he  converses  for  some  fifteen  minutes  upon 
the  public  affairs.  At  length,  in  taking  leave,  he  takes 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES    271 

also  from  the  table  the  letter  to  which  he  had  no 
claim.  Its  rightful  owner  saw,  but,  of  course,  dared 
not  call  attention  to  the  act,  in  the  presence  of  the 
third  personage,  who  stood  at  her  elbow.  The  Min 
ister  decamped,  leaving  his  own  letter — one  of  no  im 
portance — upon  the  table." 

"Here,  then,"  said  Dupin  to  me,  "you  have  pre 
cisely  what  you  demand  to  make  the  ascendancy 
complete — the  robber's  knowledge  of  the  loser's 
knowledge  of  the  robber." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Prefect,  "and  the  power  thus 
attained  has,  for  some  months  past,  been  wielded,  for 
political  purposes,  to  a  very  dangerous  extent.  The 
personage  robbed  is  more  thoroughly  convinced,  every 
day,  of  the  necessity  of  reclaiming  her  letter.  But 
this,  of  course,  cannot  be  done  openly.  In  fine,  driven 
to  despair,  she  has  committed  the  matter  to  me." 

"Than  whom,"  said  Dupin,  amid  a  perfect  whirl 
wind  of  smoke,  "no  more  sagacious  agent  could,  I 
suppose,  be  desired,  or  even  imagined." 

"You  flatter  me,"  replied  the  Prefect,  "but  it  is-, 
possible  that  some  such  opinion  may  have  been, 
entertained." 

"It  is  clear,"  said  I,  "as  you  observe,  that  the  letter- 
is  still  in  possession  of  the  Minister;  since  it  is  this: 
possession,  and  not  any  employment  of  the  letter,, 
which  bestows  the  power.  With  the  employment  the; 
power  departs." 

"True,"  said  G ;  "and  upon  this  conviction  I 

proceeded.  My  first  care  was  to  make  thorough  search 
of  the  Minister's  Hotel ;  and  here  my  chief  embarrass 
ment  lay  in  the  necessity  of  searching  without  his 
knowledge.  Beyond  all  things,  I  have  been  warned 


272  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

of  the  danger  which  would  result  from  giving  him 
reason  to  suspect  our  design." 

"But,"  said  I,  "you  are  quite  au  fait-  in  these  in 
vestigations.  The  Parisian  police  have  done  this  thing 
often  before." 

"Oh,  yes;  and  for  this  reason  I  did  not  despair. 
The  habits  of  the  Minister  gave  me,  too,  a  great  ad 
vantage.  He  is  frequently  absent  from  home  all  night. 
His  servants  are  by  no  means  numerous.  They  sleep 
at  a  distance  from  their  master's  apartment,  and,  being 
chiefly  Neapolitans,  are  readily  made  drunk.  I  have 
keys,  as  you  know,  with  which  I  can  open  any  chamber 
or  cabinet  in  Paris.  For  three  months  a  night  has  not 
passed,  during  the  greater  part  of  which  I  have  not 

been   engaged,   personally,   in   ransacking  the   D 

Hotel.  My  honor  is  interested,  and,  to  mention  a 
great  secret,  the  reward  is  enormous.  So  I  did  not 
abandon  the  search  until  I  had  become  fully  satisfied 
that  the  thief  is  a  more  astute  man  than  myself.  I 
fancy  that  I  have  investigated  every  nook  and  corner 
of  the  premises  in  which  it  is  possible  that  the  paper 
can  be  concealed." 

"But  is  it  not  possible,"  I  suggested,  "that  although 
the  letter  may  be  in  possession  of  the  Minister,  as  it 
unquestionably  is,  he  may  have  concealed  it  elsewhere 
than  upon  his  own  premises?" 

"This  is  barely  possible,"  said  Dupin.  "The  pres 
ent  peculiar  condition  of  affairs  at  court,  and 

especially  of  those  intrigues  in  which  D is  known 

to  be  involved,  would  render  the  instant  availability  of 
the  document — its  susceptibility  of  being  produced  at 
a  moment's  notice — a  point  of  nearly  equal  importance 
with  its  possession." 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES    273 

"Its  susceptibility  of  being  produced?"  said  I. 

"That  is  to  say,  of  being  destroyed!'  said  Dupin. 

"True,"  I  observed ;  "the  paper  is  clearly  then 
upon  the  premises.  As  for  its  being  upon  the  person 
of  the  Minister,  we  may  consider  that  as  out  of  the 
question." 

"Entirely,"  said  the  Prefect.  "He  has  been  twice 
waylaid,  as  if  by  footpads,  and  his  person  rigorously 
searched  under  my  own  inspection." 

"You  might  have  spared  yourself  this  trouble," 

said  Dupin.  "D ,  I  presume,  is  not  altogether  a 

fool,  and,  if  not,  must  have  anticipated  these  waylay- 
ings,  as  a  matter  of  course." 

"Not  altogether  a  fool,"  said  G ,  "but  then  he's 

a  poet,  which  I  take  to  be  only  one  remove  from  a 
fool." 

"True,"  said  Dupin,  after  a  long  and  thoughtful 
whiff  from  his  meerschaum,  "although  I  have  been 
guilty  of  certain  doggerel  myself." 

"Suppose  you  detail,"  said  I,  "the  particulars  of 
your  search." 

"Why,  the  fact  is,  we  took  our  time,  and  we 
searched  everywhere.  I  have  had  long  experience  in 
these  affairs.  I  took  the  entire  building,  room  by 
room,  devoting  the  nights  of  a  whole  week  to  each. 
We  examined,  first,  the  furniture  of  each  apartment. 
We  opened  every  possible  drawer ;  and  I  presume  you 
know  that,  to  a  properly  trained  police  agent,  such  a 
thing  as  a  secret  drawer  is  impossible.  Any  man  is  a 
dolt  who  permits  a  'secret'  drawer  to  escape  him  in  a 
search  of  this  kind.  The  thing  is  so  plain.  There  is 
a  certain  amount  of  bulk — of  space — to  be  accounted 
for  in  every  cabinet.  Then  we  have  accurate  rules. 


274  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

The  fiftieth  part  of  a  line  could  not  escape  us.  After 
the  cabinets  we  took  the  chairs.  The  cushions  we 
probed  with  fine  long  needles  you  have  seen  me  em 
ploy.  From  the  tables  we  removed  the  tops." 

"Why  so?" 

"Sometimes  the  top  of  a  table,  or  other  similarly 
arranged  piece  of  furniture,  is  removed  by  the  person 
wishing  to  conceal  an  article ;  then  the  leg  is  excavated, 
the  article  deposited  within  the  cavity,  and  the  top 
replaced.  The  bottoms  and  tops  of  bedposts  are  em 
ployed  in  the  same  way." 

"But  could  not  the  cavity  be  detected  by  sound 
ing?"  I  asked. 

"By  no  means,  if,  when  the  article  is  deposited,  a 
sufficient  wadding  of  cotton  be  placed  around  it.  Be 
sides,  in  our  case  we  were  obliged  to  proceed  without 
noise." 

"But  you  could  not  have  removed — you  could  not 
have  taken  to  pieces  all  articles  of  furniture  in  which 
it  would  have  been  possible  to  make  a  deposit  in  the 
manner  you  mention.  A  letter  may  be  compressed 
into  a  thin  spiral  roll,  not  differing  much  in  shape  or 
bulk  from  a  large  knitting  needle,  and  in  this  form  it 
might  be  inserted  into  the  rung  of  a  chair,  for  example. 
You  did  not  take  to  pieces  all  the  chairs  ?" 

"Certainly  not ;  but  we  did  better — we  examined 
the  rungs  of  every  chair  in  the  Hotel,  and  indeed,  the 
jointings  of  every  description  of  furniture,  by  the  aid 
of  a  most  powerful  microscope.  Had  there  been  any 
traces  of  recent  disturbance  we  should  not  have  failed 
to  detect  it  instantly.  A  single  grain  of  gimlet-dust, 
for  example,  would  have  been  as  obvious  as  an  apple. 
Any  disorder  in  the  gluing — any  unusual  gaping  in 
the  joints — would  have  sufficed  to  insure  detection," 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES    275 

"I  presume  you  looked  to  the  mirrors,  between  the 
boards  and  the  plates,  and  you  probed  the  beds  and  the 
bedclothes,  as  well  as  the  curtains  and  carpets?" 

"That,  of  course ;  and  when  we  had  absolutely 
completed  every  particle  of  the  furniture  in  this  way, 
then  we  examined  the  house  itself.  We  divided  its 
entire  surface  into  compartments,  which  we  numbered, 
so  that  none  might  be  missed ;  then  we  scrutinized  each 
individual  square  inch  throughout  the  premises,  in 
cluding  the  two  houses  immediately  adjoining,  with 
the  microscope,  as  before." 

"The  two  houses  adjoining!"  I  exclaimed;  "you 
must  have  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble." 

"We  had ;  but  the  reward  offered  is  prodigious." 
"You  include  the  grounds  about  the  houses?" 
"All  the  grounds   are  paved  with  bricks.     They 
gave  us  comparatively  little  trouble.     We  examined 
the  moss  between  the  bricks,  and  found  it  undisturbed." 

"You   looked   among  D 's  papers,   of  course, 

and  into  the  books  of  the  library  ?" 

"Certainly ;  we  opened  every  package  and  parcel ; 
we  not  only  opened  every  book,  but  we  turned  over 
every  leaf  in  each  volume,  not  contenting  ourselves 
with  a  mere  shake,  according  to  the  fashion  of  some 
of  our  police  officers.  We  also  measured  the  thick 
ness  of  every  book-coz^r,  with  the  most  accurate 
admeasurement,  and  applied  to  each  the  most  jealous 
scrutiny  of  the  miscroscope.  Had  any  of  the  bindings 
been  recently  meddled  with,  it  would  have  been  utterly 
impossible  that  the  fact  should  have  escaped  observa 
tion.  Some  five  or  six  volumes,  just  from  the  hands 
of  the  binder,  we  carefully  probed,  longitudinally,  with 
the  needles." 


276  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

"You  explored  the  floors  beneath  the  carpets?" 

"Beyond  doubt.  We  removed  every  carpet,  and 
examined  the  boards  with  the  microscope." 

"And  the  paper  on  the  walls?" 

"Yes." 

"You  looked  into  the  cellars?" 

"We  did." 

"Then,"  I  said,  "you  have  been  making  a  miscal 
culation,  and  the  letter  is  not  upon  the  premises,  as  you 
suppose." 

"I  fear  you  are  right  there,"  said  the  Prefect. 
"And  now,  Dupin,  what  would  you  advise  me  to  do?" 

"To  make  a  thorough  re-search  of  the  premises." 

"That  is  absolutely  needless,"  replied  G .  "I 

am  not  more  sure  that  I  breathe  than  I  am  that  the 
letter  is  not  at  the  Hotel." 

"I  have  no  better  advice  to  give  you,"  said  Dupin. 

"You  have,  of  course,  an  accurate  description  of 
the  letter?" 

"Oh,  yes!" — And  here  the  Prefect,  producing  a 
memorandum-book,  proceeded  to  read  aloud  a  minute 
account  of  the  internal,  and  especially  of  the  external 
appearance  of  the  missing  document.  Soon  after 
finishing  the  perusal  of  this  description,  he  took  his 
departure,  more  entirely  depressed  in  spirits  than  I 
had  ever  known  the  good  gentleman  before. 

In  about  a  month  afterwards  he  paid  us  another 
visit,  and  found  us  occupied  very  nearly  as  before. 
He  took  a  pipe  and  a  chair  and  entered  into  some  or 
dinary  conversation.  At  length  I  said, — 

"Well,  but,  G ,  what  of  the  purloined  letter?  I 

presume  you  have  at  last  made  up  your  mind  that 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  overreaching  the  Minister?" 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES    277 

"Confound  him,  say  I — yes ;  I  made  the  re-exami 
nation,  however,  as  Dupin  suggested — but  it  was  all 
labor  lost,  as  I  knew  it  would  be." 

"How  much  was  the  reward  offered,  did  you  say  ?" 
asked  Dupin. 

"Why,  a  very  great  deal — a  very  liberal  reward — I 
don't  like  to  say  how  much,  precisely ;  but  one  thing  I 
will  say,  that  I  wouldn't  mind  giving  my  individual 
check  for  fifty  thousand  francs  to  any  one  who  could 
obtain  me  that  letter.  The  fact  is,  it  is  becoming  of 
more  and  more  importance  every  day ;  and  the  reward 
has  been  lately  doubled.  If  it  were  trebled,  however, 
I  could  do  no  more  than  I  have  done." 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Dupin,  drawlingly,  between  the 

whiffs  of  his  meerschaum,   "I  really — think,  G -, 

you  have  not  exerted  yourself — to  the  utmost  in  this 
matter.     You  might — do  a  little  more,  I  think,  eh?" 

"How? — in  what  way?" 

"Why — puff,  puff — you  might — puff,  puff — em 
ploy  counsel  in  the  matter,  eh  ? — puff,  puff,  puff.  Do 
you  remember  the  story  they  tell  of  Abernethy  ?" 

"No ;  hang  Abernethy !" 

"To  be  sure!  hang  him  and  welcome.  But,  once 
upon  a  time,  a  certain  rich  miser  conceived  the  design 
of  sponging  upon  this  Abernethy  for  a  medical 
opinion.  Getting  up,  for  this  purpose,  an  ordinary 
conversation  in  a  private  company,  he  insinuated  his 
case  to  the  physician,  as  that  of  an  imaginary 
individual. 

'  'We  will  suppose/  said  the  miser,  'that  his  symp 
toms  are  such  and  such ;  now,  doctor,  what  would  you 
have  directed  him  to  take?' 

"  Take !'  said  Abernethy,  'why,  take  advice,  to  be 


278  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

"But,"  said  the  Prefect,  a  little  discomposed,  "I  am 
perfectly  willing  to  take  advice,  and  to  pay  for  it.  I 
would  really  give  fifty  thousand  francs  to  any  one  who 
would  aid  me  in  the  matter." 

"In  that  case,"  replied  Dupin,  opening  a  drawer, 
and  producing  a  check-book,  "you  may  as  well  fill  me 
up  a  check  for  the  amount  mentioned.  When  you 
have  signed  it,  I  will  hand  you  the  letter." 

I  was  astounded.  The  Prefect  appeared  abso 
lutely  thunder-stricken.  For  some  minutes  he  re 
mained  speechless  and  motionless,  looking  incredu 
lously  at  my  friend  with  open  mouth,  and  eyes  that 
seemed  starting  from  their  sockets ;  then,  apparently 
recovering  himself  in  some  measure,  he  seized  a  pen, 
and  after  several  pauses  and  vacant  stares,  finally 
filled  up  and  signed  a  check  for  fifty  thousand  francs, 
and  handed  it  across  the  table  to  Dupin.  The  latter 
examined  it  carefully  and  deposited  it  in  his  pocket- 
book;  then,  unlocking  an  escritoire,  took  thence  a  let 
ter  and  gave  it  to  the  Prefect.  This  functionary 
grasped  it  in  a  perfect  agony  of  joy,  opened  it  with  a 
trembling  hand,  cast  a  rapid  glance  at  its  contents,  and 
then,  scrambling  and  struggling  to  the  door,  rushed  at 
length  unceremoniously  from  the  room  and  from  the 
house,  without  having  uttered  a  syllable  since  Dupin 
had  requested  him  to  fill  up  the  check. 

When  he  had  gone,  my  friend  entered  into  some 
explanations. 

"The  Parisian  police,"  he  said,  "are  exceedingly 
able  in  their  way.  They  are  persevering,  ingenious, 
cunning,  and  thoroughly  versed  in  the  knowledge 
which  their  duties  seem  chiefly  to  demand.  Thus, 
when  G detailed  to  us  his  mode  of  searching  the 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES    279 

premises  at  the  Hotel  D ,  I  felt  entire  confidence  in 

his  having  made  a  satisfactory  investigation — so  far  as 
his  labors  extended." 

"So  far  as  his  labors  extended?"  said  I. 

"Yes,"  said  Dupin.  "The  measures  adopted  were 
not  only  the  best  of  their  kind,  but  carried  out  to  ab 
solute  perfection.  Had  the  letter  been  deposited 
within  the  range  of  their  search,  these  fellows  would, 
beyond  a  question,  have  found  it." 

I  merely  laughed — but  he  seemed  quite  serious  in 
all  that  he  said. 

"The  measures,  then,"  he  continued,  "were  good  in 
their  kind,  and  well  executed ;  their  defect  lay  in  their 
being  inapplicable  to  the  case,  and  to  the  man.  A  cer 
tain  set  of  highly  ingenious  resources  are,  with  the 
Prefect,  a  sort  of  Procrustean  bed  to  which  he  forc 
ibly  adapts  his  designs.  But  he  perpetually  errs  by 
being  too  deep  or  too  shallow,  for  the  matter  in  hand ; 
and  many  a  schoolboy  is  a  better  reasoner  than  he.  I 
knew  one  about  eight  years  of  age,  whose  success  at 
guessing  in  the  game  of  'even  and  odd'  attracted  uni 
versal  admiration.  This  game  is  simple,  and  is  played 
with  marbles.  One  player  holds  in  his  hand  a  number 
of  these  toys,  and  demands  of  another  whether  that 
number  is  even  or  odd.  If  the  guess  is  right,  the 
guesser  wins  one ;  if  wrong,  he  loses  one.  The  boy  to 
whom  I  allude  won  all  the  marbles  of  the  school.  Of 
course  he  had  some  principle  of  guessing ;  and  this  lay 
in  mere  observation  and  admeasurement  of  the  astute 
ness  of  his  opponents.  For  example,  an  arrant  sim 
pleton  is  his  opponent,  and,  holding  up  his  closed  hand 
asks,  'Are  they  even  or  odd  ?'  Our  schoolboy  replies, 
'odd/  and  loses ;  but  upon  the  second  trial  he  wins,  for 


280  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

he  then  says  to  himself,  'the  simpleton  had  them  even 
upon  the  first  trial,  and  his  amount  of  cunning  is  just 
sufficient  to  make  him  have  them  odd  upon  the  sec 
ond  ;  I  will  therefore  guess  odd ;'  he  guesses  odd,  and 
wins.  Now,  with  a  simpleton  a  degree  above  the  first 
he  would  have  reasoned  thus :  'This  fellow  finds  that 
in  the  first  instance  I  guessed  odd,  and,  in  the  second, 
he  will  propose  to  himself,  upon  the  first  impulse,  a 
simple  variation  from  even  to  odd,  as  did  the  first  sim 
pleton;  but  then  a  second  thought  will  suggest  that 
this  is  too  simple  a  variation,  and  finally  he  will  decide 
upon  putting  it  even  as  before.  I  will  therefore  guess 
even ;'  he  guesses  even,  and  wins.  Now  this  mode  of 
reasoning  in  the  schoolboy,  whom  his  fellows  term 
'lucky,' — what,  in  its  last  analysis,  is  it?" 

"It  is  merely,"  I  said,  "an  indentification  of  the 
reasoner's  intellect  with  that  of  his  opponent." 

"It  is,"  said  Dupin;  "and,  upon  inquiring  of  the 
boy  by  what  means  he  effected  the  thorough  identifi 
cation  in  which  his  success  consisted,  I  received  answer 
as  follows :  'When  I  wish  to  find  out  how  wise,  or  how 
stupid,  .or  how  good,  or  how  wicked  is  any  one,  or 
what  are  his  thoughts  at  the  moment,  I  fashion  the 
expression  of  my  face,  as  accurately  as  possible,  in  ac 
cordance  writh  the  expression  of  his,  and  then  wait  to 
see  what  thoughts  or  sentiments  arise  in  my  mind  or 
heart,  as  if  to  match  or  correspond  with  the  expres 
sion/  This  response  of  the  schoolboy  lies  at  the  bot 
tom  of  all  the  spurious  profundity  which  has  been 
attributed  to  Rochefoucauld,  to  La  Bruyere,  to  Mach- 
iavelli,  and  to  Campanella." 

"And  the  identification,"  I  said,  "of  the  reasoner's 
intellect  with  that  of  his  opponent,  depends,  if  I  un- 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES     281 

derstand  you  aright,  upon  the  accuracy  with  which 
the  opponent's  intellect  is  admeasured." 

'Tor  its  practical  value  it  depends  upon  this,"  re 
plied  Dupin,  "and  the  Prefect  and  his  cohort  fail  so 
frequently,  first,  by  default  of  this  identification,  and, 
secondly,  by  ill-admeasurement,  or  rather  through 
non-admeasurement,  of  the  intellect  with  which  they 
are  engaged.  They  consider  only  their  own  ideas  of 
ingenuity;  and,  in  searching  for  anything  hidden,  ad 
vert  only  to  the  modes  in  which  they  would  have  hid 
den  it.  They  are  right  in  this  much — that  their  own 
ingenuity  is  a  faithful  representative  of  that  of  the 
mass :  but  when  the  cunning  of  the  individual  felon  is 
diverse  in  character  from  their  own,  the  felon  foils 
them,  of  course.  This  always  happens  when  it  is 
above  their  own,  and  very  usually  when  it  is  below. 
They  have  no  variation  of  principle  in  their  investiga 
tions;  at  best,  when  urged  by  some  unusual  emer 
gency — by  some  extraordinary  reward — they  extend 
or  exaggerate  their  old  modes  of  practice,  without 
touching  their  principles.  What,  for  example,  in  this 

case  of  D ,  has  been  done  to  vary  the  principle  of 

action?  What  is  all  this  boring,  and  probing,  and 
sounding,  and  scrutinizing  with  the  miscrocope,  and 
dividing  the  surface  of  the  building  into  registered 
square  inches — what  is  it  all  but  an  exaggeration  of 
the  application  of  the  one  principle  or  set  of  principles 
of  search,  which  are  based  upon  the  one  set  of  notions 
regarding  human  ingenuity,  to  which  the  Prefect,  in 
the  long  routine  of  his  duty,  has  been  accustomed? 
Do  you  not  see  he  has  taken  it  for  granted  that  all  men 
proceed  to  conceal  a  letter, — not  exactly  in  a  gimlet- 
hole  in  a  chair  leg — but,  at  least,  in  soiine  out-of-the- 


282  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

way  hole  or  corner  suggested  by  the  same  tenor  of 
thought  which  would  urge  a  man  to  secrete  a  letter  in 
a  gimlet-hole  bored  in  a  chair-leg?  And  do  you  not 
see,  also,  that  such  recherchcs  nooks  for  concealment 
are  adapted  only  for  ordinary  occasions  and  would  be 
adopted  only  by  ordinary  intellects ;  for,  in  all  cases  of 
concealment,  a  disposal  of  the  article  concealed — a  dis 
posal  of  it  in  this  recherche  manner — is,  in  the  very 
first  instance,  presumable  and  presumed ;  and  thus  its 
discovery  depends,  not  at  all  upon  the  acumen,  but  al 
together  upon  the  mere  care,  patience,  and  determina 
tion  of  the  seekers ;  and  where  the  case  is  of  import 
ance — or,  what  amounts  to  the  same  thing  in  policial 
eyes,  when  the  reward  is  of  magnitude — the  qualities 
in  question  have  ncz'er  been  known  to  fail.  You  will 
now  understand  what  I  meant  in  suggesting  that,  had 
the  purloined  letter  been  hidden  anywhere  within  the 
limits  of  the  Prefect's  examination — in  other  words, 
had  the  principle .  of  its  concealment  been  compre 
hended  within  the  principles  of  the  Prefect — its  dis 
covery  would  have  been  a  matter  altogether  beyond 
question.  This  functionary,  however,  has  been  thor 
oughly  mystified ;  and  the  remote  source  of  his  defeat 
lies  in  the  supposition  that  the  Minister  is  a  fool,  be 
cause  he  has  acquired  renown  as  a  poet.  All  fools  are 
poets ;  this  the  Prefect  feels;  and  he  is  merely  guilty  of 
a  non  distributio  medii  in  thence  inferring  that  all 
poets  are  fools." 

"But  is  this  really  the  poet?"  I  asked.  "There  are 
two  brothers,  I  know ;  and  both  have  attained  reputa 
tion  in  letters.  The  Minister,  I  believe,  has  written 
learnedly  on  the  Differential  Calculus.  He  is  a 
mathematician,  and  no  poet." 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES    283 

"You  are  mistaken;  I  know  him  well;  he  is  both. 
As  poet  and  mathematician,  he  would  reason  well ;  as 
mere  mathematician,  he  could  not  have  reasoned  at  all, 
and  thus  would  have  been  at  the  mercy  of  the  Prefect." 

"You  surprise  me,"  I  said,  "by  these  opinions, 
which  have  been  contradicted  by  the  voice  of  the 
world.  You  do  not  mean  to  set  at  naught  the  well- 
digested  idea  of  centuries.  The  mathematical  reason 
has  long  been  regarded  as  the  reason  par  excellence." 

"'II  y  a  parier,' "  replied  Dupin,  quoting  from 
Chamfort,  "  (que  toute  idee  publique,  toute  convention 
regue,  est  une  sottise,  car  elle  a  convenue  au  plus  grand 
nombre!  The  mathematicians,  I  grant  you,  have  done 
their  best  to  promulgate  the  popular  error  to  which 
you  allude,  and  which  is  none  the  less  an  error  for  its 
promulgation  as  truth.  With  an  art  worthy  a  better 
cause,  for  example,  they  have  insinuated  the  term 
'analysis'  into  application  to  algebra.  The  French  are 
the  originators  of  this  particular  deception;  but  if  a 
term  is  of  any  importance — if  words  derive  any  value 
from  applicability — then  'analysis'  conveys  'algebra/ 
as  much  as,  in  Latin,  'ambitus'  implies  'ambition/  're- 
ligio'  'religion/  or  'homines  honesti*  a  set  of  honorable 
men." 

"You  have  a  quarrel  on  hand,  I  see/'  said  I,  "with 
some  of  the  algebraists  of  Paris ;  but  proceed." 

"I  dispute  the  availability,  and  thus  the  value,  of 
that  reason  which  is  cultivated  in  any  especial  form 
other  than  the  abstractly  logical.  I  dispute,  in  par 
ticular,  the  reason  educed  by  mathematical  study.  The 
mathematics  are  the  science  of  form  and  quantity ; 
mathematical  reasoning  is  merely  logic  applied  to  ob 
servation  upon  form  and  quantity.  The  great  error 


284  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

lies  in  supposing  that  even  the  truths  of  what  is  called 
pure  algebra  are  abstract  or  general  truths.  And  this 
error  is  so  egregious  that  I  am  confounded  at  the  uni 
versality  with  which  it  has  been  received.  Mathe 
matical  axioms  are  not  axioms  of  general  truth.  What 
is  true  of  relation — of  form  and  quantity — is  often 
grossly  false  in  regard  to  morals,  for  example.  In 
this  latter  science  it  is  very  usually  untrue  that  the  ag 
gregated  parts  are  equal  to  the  whole.  In  chemistry 
also  the  axiom  fails.  In  the  consideration  of  motive 
it  fails;  for  two  motives,  each  of  a  given  value,  have 
not,  necessarily,  a  value  when  united,  equal  to  the  sum 
of  their  values  apart.  There  are  numerous  other 
mathematical  truths  which  are  only  truths  within  the 
limits  of  relation.  But  the  mathematician  argues, 
from  his  finite  truths,  through  habit,  as  if  they  were  of 
an  absolutely  general  applicability — as  the  world  in 
deed  imagines  them  to  be.  Bryant,  in  his  very  learned 
'Mythology/  mentions  an  analogous  source  of  error, 
when  he  says  that  'although  the  Pagan  fables  are  not 
believed,  yet  we  forget  ourselves  continually,  and  make 
inferences  from  them  as  existing  realities/  With  the 
algebraists,  however,  who  are  Pagans  themselves,  the 
'Pagan  fables'  are  believed,  and  the  inferences  are 
made,  not  so  much  through  lapse  of  memory,  as 
through  an  unaccountable  addling  of  the  brains.  In 
short,  I  never  yet  encountered  the  mere  mathemati 
cian  who  could  be  trusted  out  of  equal  roots,  or  one 
who  did  not  clandestinely  hold  it  as  a  point  of  his  faith 
that  .r2~\-p.v  was  absolutely  and  unconditionally  equal 
to  q.  Say  to  one  of  these  gentlemen,  by  way  of  expe 
riment,  if  you  please,  that  you  believe  occasions  may 
occur  where  x*-\-px  is  not  altogether  equal  to  q,  and, 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES    285 

having  made  him  understand  what  you  mean,  get  out 
of  his  reach  as  speedily  as  convenient,  for,  beyond 
doubt,  he  will  endeavor  to  knock  you  down. 

"I  mean  to  say,"  continued  Dupin,  while  I  merely 
laughed  at  his  last  observations,  "that  if  the  Minister 
had  been  no  more  than  a  mathematician,  the  Prefect 
would  have  been  under  no  necessity  of  giving  me  this 
check.  I  knew  him,  however,  as  both  mathematician 
and  poet,  and  my  measures  were  adapted  to  his  ca 
pacity,  with  reference  to  the  circumstances  by  which 
he  was  surrounded.  I  knew  him  as  courtier,  too,  and 
as  a  bold  intriguant.  Such  a  man,  I  considered,  could 
not  fail  to  be  aware  of  the  ordinary  politicial  modes  of 
action.  He  could  not  have  failed  to  anticipate — and 
events  have  proved  that  he  did  not  fail  to  anticipate — 
the  way  lay  ings  to  which  he  was  subjected.  He  must 
have  foreseen,  I  reflected,  the  secret  investigations  of 
his  premises.  His  frequent  absences  from  home  at 
night,  which  were  hailed  by  the  Prefect  as  certain  aids 
to  his  success,  I  regarded  only  as  ruses,  to  afford  op 
portunity  for  thorough  search  to  the  police,  and  thus 
the  sooner  to  impress  them  with  the  conviction  to 
which  G ,  in  fact,  did  finally  arrive — the  convic 
tion  that  the  letter  was  not  upon  the  premises.  I  felt, 
also,  that  the  whole  train  of  thought,  which  I  was  at 
some  pains  in  detailing  to  you  just  now,  concerning  the 
invariable  principle  of  policial  action  in  searches  for 
articles  concealed — I  felt  that  this  whole  train  of 
thought  would  necessarily  pass  through  the  mind  of 
the  Minister.  It  would  imperatively  lead  him  to  de 
spise  all  the  ordinary  nooks  of  concealment.  He  could 
not,  I  reflected,  be  so  weak  as  not  to  see  that  the  most 
intricate  and  remote  recess  of  his  Hotel  would  be  as 


286  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

open  as  his  commonest  closets  to  the  eyes,  to  the 
probes,  to  the  gimlets,  and  to  the  microscopes  of  the 
Prefect.  I  saw,  in  fine,  that  he  would  be  driven,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  to  simplicity,  if  not  deliberately  in 
duced  to  it  as  a  matter  of  choice.  You  will  remember, 
perhaps,  how  desperately  the  Prefect  laughed  when  I 
suggested,  upon  our  first  interview,  that  it  was  just 
possible  this  mystery  troubled  him  so  much  on  account 
of  its  being  so  very  self-evident." 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "I  remember  his  merriment  well.  I 
really  thought  he  would  have  fallen  into  convulsions." 

"The  material  world,"  continued  Dupin,  "abounds 
with  very  strict  analogies  to  the  immaterial ;  and  thus 
some  color  of  truth  has  been  given  to  the  rhetorical 
dogma,  that  metaphor,  or  simile,  may  be  made  to 
strengthen  an  argument,  as  well  as  to  embellish  a  de 
scription.  The  principle  of  the  vis  inertice  for  exam 
ple,  seems  to  be  identical  in  physics  and  metaphysics. 
It  is  not  more  true  in  the  former,  that  a  large  body  is 
with  more  difficulty  set  in  motion  than  a  smaller  one, 
and  that  its  subsequent  momentum  is  commensurate 
with  this  difficulty,  than  it  is,  in  the  latter,  that  intel 
lects  of  the  vaster  capacity,  while  more  forcible,  more 
constant,  and  more  eventful  in  their  movements  than 
those  of  inferior  grade,  are  yet  the  less  readily  moved, 
and  more  embarrassed  and  full  of  hesitation  in  the 
first  few  steps  of  their  progress.  Again:  have  you 
ever  noticed  which  of  the  street  signs,  over  the  shop- 
doors,  are  the  most  attractive  of  attention  ?" 

"I  have  never  given  the  matter  a  thought,"  I  said. 

"There  is  a  game  of  puzzles,"  he  resumed,  "which 
is  played  upon  a  map.  One  party  playing  requires 
another  to  find  a  given  word — the  name  of  town, 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES    287 

river,  state,  or  empire — any  word,  in  short,  upon  the 
motley  and  perplexed  surface  of  the  chart.  A  novice 
in  the  game  generally  seeks  to  embarrass  his  oppo 
nents  by  giving  them  the  most  minutely  lettered 
names ;  but  the  adept  selects  such  words  as  stretch,  in 
large  characters,  from  one  end  of  the  chart  to  the 
other.  These,  like  the  over-largely  lettered  signs  and 
placards  of  the  street,  escape  observation  by  dint  of 
being  excessively  obvious ;  and  here  the  physical  over 
sight  is  precisely  analogous  with  the  moral  inappre- 
hension  by  which  the  intellect  suffers  to  pass  unnoticed 
those  considerations  which  are  too  obtrusively  and 
too  palpably  self-evident.  But  this  is  a  point,  it  ap 
pears,  somewhat  above  or  beneath  the  understanding 
of  the  Prefect.  He  never  once  thought  it  probable,  or 
possible,  that  the  Minister  had  deposited  the  letter  im 
mediately  beneath  the  nose  of  the  whole  world,  by  way 
of  best  preventing  any  portion  of  that  world  from  per 
ceiving  it. 

"But  the  more  I  reflected  upon  the  daring,  dash 
ing,  and  discriminating  ingenuity  of  D ;  upon  the 

fact  that  the  document  must  always  have  been  at  hand, 
if  he  intended  to  use  it  to  good  purpose ;  and  upon  the 
decisive  evidence,  obtained  by  the  Prefect,  that  it  was 
not  hidden  within  the  limits  of  that  dignitary's  ordi 
nary  search — the  more  satisfied  I  became  that,  to  con 
ceal  this  letter,  the  Minister  had  resorted  to  the  com 
prehensive  and  sagacious  expedient  of  not  attempting 
to  conceal  it  at  all. 

"Full  of  these  ideas,  I  prepared  myself  with  a  pair 
of  green  spectacles,  and  called  one  fine  morning,  quite 

by  accident,  at  the  Ministerial  Hotel.  I  found  D 

at  home,  yawning,  lounging,  and  dawdling,  as  usual, 


288  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

and  pretending  to  be  in  the  last  extremity  of  ennui. 
He  is,  perhaps,  the  most  really  energetic  human  being 
now  alive — but  that  is  only  when  nobody  sees  him. 

"To  be  even  with  him,  I  complained  of  my  weak 
eyes,  and  lamented  the  necessity  of  the  spectacles, 
under  cover  of  which  I  cautiously  and  thoroughly  sur 
veyed  the  apartment,  while  seemingly  intent  only  upon 
the  conversation  of  my  host. 

"I  paid  especial  attention  to  a  large  writing-table 
near  which  he  sat,  and  upon  which  lay  confusedly 
some  miscellaneous  letters  and  other  papers,  with  one 
or  two  musical  instruments  and  a  few  books.  Here, 
however,  after  a  long  and  very  deliberate  scrutiny,  I 
saw  nothing  to  excite  particular  suspicion. 

"At  length  my  eyes,  in  going  the  circuit  of  the 
room,  fell  upon  a  trumpery  filigree  card-rack  of  paste 
board,  that  hung  dangling  by  a  dirty  blue  ribbon  from 
a  little  brass  knob  just  beneath  the  middle  of  the  man- 
tlepiece.  In  this  rack,  which  had  three  or  four  com 
partments,  were  five  or  six  visiting  cards  and  a  soli 
tary  letter.  This  last  was  much  soiled  and  crumpled. 
It  was  torn  nearly  in  two,  across  the  middle — as  if  a 
design,  in  the  first  instance,  to  tear  it  entirely  up  as 
worthless,  had  been  altered,  or  stayed,  in  the  second. 

It  had  a  large  black  seal,  bearing  the  D cipher 

very  conspicuously,  and  was  addressed,  in  a  diminu 
tive  female  hand,  to  D ,  the  Minister  himself.  It 

was  thrust  carelessly,  and  even,  as  it  seemed,  contemp 
tuously,  into  one  of  the  upper  divisions  of  the  rack. 

"No  sooner  had  I  glanced  at  this  letter,  than  I  con 
cluded  it  to  be  that  of  which  I  was  in  search.  To  be 
sure,  it  was,  to  all  appearance,  radically  different  from 
the  one  of  which  the  Prefect  had  read  us  so  minute  a 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES    289 

description.     Here  the  seal  was  large  and  black,  with 

the  D cipher ;  there  it  was  small  and  red,  with  the 

ducal  arms  of  the  S family.     Here  the  address,  to 

the  Minister,  was  diminutive  and  feminine;  there  the 
superscription,  to  a  certain  royal  personage,  was 
markedly  bold  and  decided;  the  size  alone  formed  a 
point  of  correspondence.  But  then,  the  radicalness 
of  these  differences,  which  was  excessive;  the  dirt; 
the  soiled  and  torn  condition  of  the  paper,  so  incon 
sistent  with  the  true  methodical  habits  of  D ,  and 

so  suggestive  of  a  design  to  delude  the  beholder  into 
an  idea  of  the  worthlessness  of  the  document;  these 
things,  together  with  the  hyperobtrusive  situation  of 
this  document,  full  in  the  view  of  every  visitor,  and 
thus  exactly  in  accordance  with  the  conclusions  to 
which  I  had  previously  arrived;  these  things,  I  say, 
were  strongly  corroborative  of  suspicion,  in  one  who 
came  with  the  intention  to  suspect. 

"I  protracted  my  visit  as  long  as  possible,  and, 
while  I  maintained  a  most  animated  discussion  with 
the  Minister,  upon  a  topic  which  I  knew  well  had 
never  failed  to  interest  and  excite  him,  I  kept  my  at 
tention  really  riveted  upon  the  letter.  In  this  exami 
nation,  I  committed  to  memory  its  external  appearance 
and  arrangement  in  the  rack;  and  also  fell,  at  length, 
upon  a  discovery  which  set  at  rest  whatever  trivial 
doubt  I  might  have  entertained.  In  scrutinizing  the 
edges  of  the  paper,  I  observed  them  to  be  more  chafed 
than  seemed  necessary.  They  presented  the  broken 
appearance  which  is  manifested  when  a  stiff  paper, 
having  been  once  folded  and  pressed  with  a  folder,  is 
refolded  in  a  reversed  direction,  in  the  same  creases  or 
edges  which  had  formed  the  original  fold.  This  dis- 


290  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

covery  was  sufficient.  It  was  clear  to  me  that  the 
letter  had  been  turned,  as  a  glove,  inside  out,  re-di 
rected,  and  resealed.  I  bade  the  Minister  good-morn 
ing,  and  took  my  departure  at  once,  leaving  a  gold 
snuff-box  upon  the  table. 

"The  next  morning  I  called  for  the  snuff-box,  when 
we  resumed,  quite  eagerly,  the  conversation  of  the 
preceding  day.  While  thus  engaged,  however,  a  loud 
report,  as  if  of  a  pistol,  was  heard  immediately  beneath 
the  windows  of  the  Hotel,  and  was  succeeded  by  a 
series  of  fearful  screams,  and  the  shoutings  of  a  mob. 

D rushed  to  a  casement,  threw  it  open,  and  looked 

out.  In  the  meantime,  I  stepped  to  the  card-rack,  took 
the  letter,  put  it  in  my  pocket,  and  replaced  it  by  a 
facsimile  (so  far  as  regards  externals),  which  I  had 
carefully  prepared  at  my  lodgings — imitating  the 

D cipher,  very  readily,  by  means  of  a  seal  formed 

of  bread. 

"The  disturbance  in  the  street  had  been  occasioned 
by  the  frantic  behavior  of  a  man  with  a  musket.  He 
had  fired  it  among  a  crowd  of  women  and  children! 
It  proved,  however,  to  have  been  without  ball,  and  the 
fellow  was  suffered  to  go  his  way  as  a  lunatic  or  a 

drunkard.     When  he  had  gone,  D came  from  the 

window,  whither  I  had  followed  him  immediately  upon 
securing  the  object  in  view.  Soon  afterwards  I  bade 
him  farewell.  The  pretended  lunatic  was  a  man  in  my 
own  pay." 

"But  what  purpose  had  you,"  I  asked,  "in  replacing 
the  letter  by  a  facsimile  ?  Would  it  not  have  been  bet 
ter,  at  the  first  visit,  to  have  seized  it  openly,  and 
departed?" 

"D ,"  replied  Dupin,  "is  a  desperate  man,  and  a 


THE  WRITER  OF  SHORT  STORIES     291 

man  of  nerve.  His  Hotel,  too,  is  not  without  attend 
ants  devoted  to  his  interest.  Had  I  made  the  wild  at 
tempt  you  suggest,  I  might  never  have  left  the  Minis 
terial  presence  alive.  The  good  people  of  Paris  might 
have  heard  of  me  no  more.  But  I  had  an  object  apart 
from  these  considerations.  You  know  my  political 
prepossessions.  In  this  matter,  I  act  as  a  partisan  of 
the  lady  concerned.  For  eighteen  months  the  Minis 
ter  has  had  her  in  his  power.  She  has  now  him  in 
hers — since,  being  unaware  that  the  letter  is  not  in  his 
possession,  he  will  proceed  with  his  exactions  as  if  it 
was.  Thus  will  he  inevitably  commit  himself,  at  once, 
to  his  political  destruction.  His  downfall,  too,  will 
not  be  more  precipitate  than  awkward.  It  is  all  very 
well  to  talk  about  the  facilis  des census  Averni;  but  in 
all  kinds  of  climbing,  as  Catalani  said  of  singing,  it  is 
far  more  easy  to  get  up  than  to  come  down.  In  the 
present  instance  I  have  no  sympathy — at  least  no  pity 
— for  him  who  descends.  He  is  that  monstrum  hor- 
rendwn,  an  unprincipled  man  of  genius.  I  confess, 
however,  that  I  should  like  very  well  to  know  the  pre 
cise  character  of  his  thoughts,  when,  being  defied  by 
her  whom  the  Prefect  terms  'a  certain  personage/  he 
is  reduced  to  opening  the  letter  which  I  left  for  him  in 
the  card-rack?" 

"How?     Did  you  put  anything  particular  in  it?" 

"Why — it  did  not  seem  altogether  right  to  leave 

the  interior  blank — that  would  have  been  insulting. 

D ,  at  Vienna  once,  did  me  an  evil  turn,  which  I 

told  him,  quite  good-humoredly,  that  I  should  remem 
ber.  So,  as  I  knew  he  would  feel  some  curiosity  in 
regard  to  the  identity  of  the  person  who  had  outwitted 
him,  I  thought  it  a  pity  not  to  give  him  a  clew.  He 


292  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

is  well  acquainted  with  my  MS.,  and  I  just  copied  into 
the  middle  of  the  blank  sheet  the  words — 

' Un  dessein  si  funeste, 

S'il  n'est  digne  d'Atree,  est  digne  de  Thyeste.' 
They  are  to  be  found  in  Crebillon's  Atree." 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  FRONTIERSMAN 


EVERY  one  must  have  noticed  in  Poe's  stones  a 
tendency  at  times  to  become  essays.  Narration  and 
exposition  play  hide-and-seek.  O.  Henry,  in  one  of 
the  last  discussions  that  he  had  about  his  art,  told  of 
his  perplexity  in  deciding  whether  to  place  his  exposi 
tory  matter  first  or  last  in  his  stories.  Poe  has  writ 
ten  a  few  masterpieces  that  it  is  customary  to  call 
"Tales"  or  "Essays."  But  while  there  is  much  narra 
tion  in  them,  there  is  no  plot ;  and  the  exposition  that 
runs  through  them  is  hardly  of  the  essay  kind.  It  is 
in  fact  illumination  rather  than  exposition.  Though, 
this  chapter  might  be  called  "The  Prose  Poet"  or  "The 
Seer"  or  "The  Philosopher,"  I  prefer  to  entitle  it  "The 
Frontiersman."  Each  selection  represents  Poe  as  seek 
ing  for  truth  along  those  vast  borderlands  of  specula 
tion  in  which  vision  and  intuition  tread  with  firmer 
footing  than  smug  logic  or  traditional  philosophy. 

There  is  more  pure  beauty  in  these  sketches  than 
is  found  in  the  majority  of  the  short  stories  but  not 
enough  to  justify  metrical  form  or  stanzaic  division. 
In  length,  too,  these  poems  in  prose  are  midway  be 
tween  the  poem  proper  and  the  recognized  short  story. 
Whatever  you  call  them,  you  can  not  know  Poe  with 
out  knowing  that  he  was  more  than  a  literary  critic,  a 
lyric  poet,  and  the  father  of  the  short  story.  He  was 
a  frontiersman  who  found  the  old  boundary  lines  of 

293 


294  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

type  and  form  too  restricted  for  the  teeming  visions 
and  insistent  questionings  that  pushed  onward  and  up 
ward  for  ampler  spaces  and  keener  winds.  Came 

One  everlasting  Whisper  day  and  night  repeated — so : 
"Something  hidden.     Go  and  find  it.     Go  and  look  behind  the 

Ranges — 
Something  lost  behind  the  Ranges.    Lost  and  waiting  for  you. 

Go !" 

Poe  tried  to  "find  it"  and  has  left  to  us,  if  not  the 
attained  treasure  behind  the  Ranges,  at  least  the  vision 
and  the  urge  that  sped  him  on  the  way. 

"In  reading  and  re-reading  his  collected  works," 
says  Arthur  Ransome,1  "I  learnt  that,  perfect  as  his 
best  things  are,  he  has  another  title  to  immortality.  It 
became  clear  that  Poe's  brain  was  more  stimulating 
than  his  art,  and  that  the  tales  and  poems  by  which  he 
is  known  were  but  the  by-products  of  an  unconcluded 
'search.  Throughout  Poe's  life  he  sought  a  philosophy 
of  beauty  that  should  also  be  a  philosophy  of  life.  He 
did  not  find  it,  and  the  unconcluded  nature  of  his 
search  is  itself  sufficient  to  explain  his  present  vitality. 
Seekers  rather  than  finders  stimulate  the  imagination." 
In  The  Power  of  Words  Poe  makes  Agathos  say :  "Ah, 
not  in  knowledge  is  happiness,  but  in  the  acquisition 
of  knowledge !  In  forever  knowing,  we  are  forever 
blessed ;  but  to  know  all  were  the  curse  of  a  fiend" — a 
thought  in  which  Browning  and  Poe  clasp  hands. 

Poe's  mastery  of  English  is  more  evident,  I  think, 
in  his  prose  than  in  his  poetry,  and  more  evident  in 
the  selections  that  follow  than  in  his  stories.  His 
tales  of  ratiocination,  for  example,  his  masterpieces  of 

1See  his  Edgar  Allan  Poe:  A  Critical  Study  (London, 
I9IO)>  P-  IX,  a  book  of  rare  insight  and  knowledge. 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  295 

the  B  type,  show  chiefly  the  logical  side  of  the  man 
and  illustrate  a  zest  and  acumen  in  intellectual  pro 
cesses  that  have  rarely  formed  any  part  of  the  dowry 
of  poetic  genius.  The  style,  moreover,  is  sculptural. 
In  his  stories  of  the  A  type,  the  style  is  richer,  being 
more  plastic  and  more  pictorial.  But  in  these  frontier 
sketches  there  is  a  blend  of  the  sculptural  and  plastic 
and  pictorial  not  equaled  because  not  called  for  in  the 
more  purely  narrative  prose.  There  is  the  residuum  of 
intellectual  activity  but  the  activity  itself  is  kept  in  the 
background.  We  are  distantly  encompassed  rather 
than  immediately  neighbored  by  it.  Imagination  takes 
the  lead,  and  the  language  assumes  a  gravity,  a  somber 
beauty,  a  hymnic  cadence,  an  utter  identification  with 
mood  and  thought  that  one  finds  heralded  only  in  the 
purple  patches  of  a  Bacon,  a  Milton,  a  Jeremy  Taylor, 
or  a  Sir  Thomas  Browne.  If  style  be,  as  Lowell  de 
fines  it,  "the  establishment  of  a  perfect  mutual  under 
standing  between  the  worker  and  his  material,"  P'oe 
found  it  at  last  in  these  soaring  meditations  that  com 
pass  not  only  life  and  death,  not  only  the  natural  and 
the  supernatural,  but  also  the  dizzy  arches  that  span 
the  spaces  between. 

II 

Let  the  main  effort  be  as  before  to  find  the  pivotal 
thought  in  each  selection,  and  then  to  recognize  and 
enjoy  the  art  by  which  the  central  thought  is  illumin 
ated  rather  than  expounded.  Separate  passages  will, 
better  repay  study  here  than  in  the  stories.  But  if  a 
passage  is  taken  out  of  its  setting  for  any  purpose,  let 
it  be  put  back  and  re-appraised  as  a  part  of  a  larger 


296  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

whole  before  making  the  attempt  to  pass  final  judg 
ment  or  to  measure  the  intended  effect. 

SHADOW A  PARABLE   (1835) 

Yea !  though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the  Shadow. — 

PSALM  OF  DAVID. 

[The  conclusion  of  this  meditation  on  death  has 
been  universally  recognized  as  one  of  Poe's  master 
pieces  of  blended  harmony.  Brownell,  who  considers 
Shadow  only  a  bit  of  "elaborate  and  hollow  solemnity," 
concedes  in  the  ending  "a  note  of  real  pith  and  dig 
nity."  But  to  concede  pith  and  dignity  at  the  end  is, 
in  the  case  of  Poe,  to  concede  pith  and  dignity  through 
out  ;  for  the  texture  of  the  ending  is  the  texture  of  the 
whole,  and  the  form  of  the  ending  is  only  the  whole 
massed  and  made  convergent.] 

Ye  who  read  are  still  among  the  living ;  but  I  who 
write  shall  have  long  since  gone  my  way  into  the 
region  of  shadows.  For  indeed  strange  things  shall 
happen,  and  secret  things  be  known,  and  many  cen 
turies  shall  pass  away,  ere  these  memorials  be  seen  of 
men.  And,  when  seen,  there  will  be  some  to  disbe 
lieve  and  some  to  doubt,  and  yet  a  few  who  will  find 
much  to  ponder  upon  in  the  characters  here  graven 
with  a  stylus  of  iron. 

The  year  had  been  a  year  of  terror,  and  of  feelings 
more  intense  than  terror  for  which  there  is  no  name 
upon  the  earth.  For  many  prodigies  and  signs  had 
taken  place,  and  far  and  wide,  over  sea  and  land,  the 
black  wings  of  the  Pestilence  were  spread  abroad.  To 
those,  nevertheless,  cunning  in  the  stars,  it  was  not 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  297 

unknown  that  the  heavens  wore  an  aspect  of  ill ;  and 
to  me,  the  Greek  Oinos,  among  others,  it  was  evident 
that  now  had  arrived  the  alternation  of  that  seven 
hundred  and  ninety-fourth  year  when,  at  the  entrance 
of  Aries,  the  planet  Jupiter  is  conjoined  with  the  red 
ring  of  the  terrible  Saturnus.  The  peculiar  spirit  of 
the  skies,  if  I  mistake  not  greatly,  made  itself  mani 
fest,  not  only  in  the  physical  orb  of  the  earth,  but  in 
the  souls,  imaginations,  and  meditations  of  mankind. 

Over  some  flasks  of  the  red  Chian  wine,  within  the 
walls  of  a  noble  hall  in  a  dim  city  called  Ptolemais, 
we  sat  at  night,  a  company  of  seven.  And  to  our 
chamber  there  was  no  entrance  save  by  a  lofty  door 
of  brass ;  and  the  door  was  fashioned  by  the  artisan 
Corinnos,  and,  being  of  rare  workmanship,  was  fas 
tened  from  within.  Black  draperies  likewise,  in  the 
gloomy  room,  shut  out  from  our  view  the  moon,  the 
lurid  stars,  and  the  peopleless  streets ;  but  the  boding 
and  the  memory  of  Evil, — they  would  not  be  so  ex 
cluded.  There  were  things  around  us  and  about  of 
which  I  can  render  no  distinct  account, — things  ma 
terial  and  spiritual ;  heaviness  in  the  atmosphere,  a 
sense  of  suffocation,  anxiety,  and,  above  all,  that  ter 
rible  state  of  existence  which  the  nervous  experience 
when  the  senses  are  keenly  living  and  awake,  and 
meanwhile  the  powers  of  thought  lie  dormant.  A  dead 
weight  hung  upon  us.  It  hung  upon  our  limbs,  upon 
the  household  furniture,  upon  the  goblets  from  which 
we  drank;  and  all  things  were  depressed  and  borne 
down  thereby, — all  things  save  only  the  flames  of  the 
seven  iron  lamps  which  illumined  our  revel.  Uprear- 
ing  themselves  in  tall  slender  lines  of  light,  they  thus 
remained  burning,  all  pallid  and  motionless ;  and  in 


298  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

the  mirror  which  their  lustre  formed  upon  the  round 
table   of  ebony   at  which   we   sat,   each   of  us   there 
assembled  beheld  the  pallor  of  his  own  countenance, 
and  the  unquiet  glare  in  the  downcast  eyes  of  his  com 
panions.     Yet  we   laughed  and   were  merry   in   our 
proper   way, — which    was    hysterical, — and    sang    the 
songs  of  Anacreon, — which  are  madness, — and  drank 
deeply,    although    the   purple    wine    reminded    us    of 
blood.    For  there  was  yet  another  tenant  of  our  cham 
ber  in  the  person  of  young  Zo'ilus.     Dead  and  at  full 
length  he  lay,  enshrouded,  the  genius  and  the  demon 
of  the  scene.    Alas !  he  bore  no  portion  in  our  mirth, 
save  that  his  countenance,  distorted  with  the  plague, 
and  his  eyes,  in  which  Death  had  but  half  extinguished 
the  fire  of  the  pestilence,  seemed  to  take  such  interest 
in  our  merriment  as  the  dead  may  haply  take  in  the 
merriment  of  those  who  are  to  die.     But  although  I, 
Oinos,  felt  that  the  eyes  of  the  departed  were  upon  me, 
still  I  forced  myself  not  to  perceive  the  bitterness  of 
their  expression,  and,  gazing  down  steadily  into  the 
depths  of  the  ebony  mirror,   sang  with  a  loud  and 
sonorous  voice  the  songs  of  the  son  of  Teios.     But 
gradually   my   songs   they  ceased,    and  their   echoes, 
rolling  afar  off  among  the  sable  draperies  of  the  cham 
ber,  became  weak  and  undistinguishable,  and  so  faded 
away.     And,   lo!   from  among  those   sable  draperies 
where  the  sounds  of  the  song  departed,  there  came 
forth  a  dark  and  undefined  shadow, — a  shadow  sucTi 
as  the  moon,  when  low  in  heaven,  might  fashion  from 
the  figure  of  a  man ;  but  it  was  the  shadow  neither  of 
man  nor  of  God,  nor  of  any  familiar  thing.     And, 
quivering  awhile  among  the  draperies  of  the  room,  it 
at  length  rested  in  full  view  upon  the  surface  of  the 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  299 

door  of  brass.  But  the  shadow  was  vague  and  form 
less  and  indefinite,  and  was  the  shadow  neither  of 
man  nor  of  God  —  neither  God  of  Greece,  nor  God  of 
Chaldsea,  nor  any  Egyptian  God.  And  the  shadow 
rested  upon  the  brazen  doorway,  and  under  the  arch  of 
the  entablature  of  the  door,  and  moved  not,  nor  spoke 
any  word,  but  there  became  stationary  and  remained. 
And  the  door  whereupon  the  shadow  rested  was,  if  I 
remember  aright,  over  against  the  feet  of  the  young 
Zoi'lus  enshrouded.  But  we,  the  seven  there  assembled, 
having  seen  the  shadow  as  it  came  out  from  among 
the  draperies,  dared  not  steadily  behold  it,  but  cast 
down  our  eyes,  and  gazed  continually  into  the  depths 
of  the  mirror  of  ebony.  And  at  length  I,  Oinos,  speak 
ing  some  low  words,  demanded  of  the  shadow  its 
dwelling  and  its  appellation.  And  the  shadow 
answered,  "I  am  SHADOW,  and  my  dwelling  is  near 
to  the  catacombs  of  Ptolemais,  and  hard  by  those  dim 
plains  of  Helusion  which  border  upon  the  foul  Char- 
onian  canal."  And  then  did  we,  the  seven,  start  from 
our  seats  in  horror,  and  stand  trembling,  and  shudder 
ing,  and  aghast:  for  the  tones  in  the  voice  of  the 
shadow  were  not  the  tones  of  any  one  being,  but  of  a 
multitude  of  beings,  and,  varying  in  their  cadences 
from  syllable  to  syllable,  fell  duskily  upon  our  ears  in 
the  well-remembered  and  familiar  accents  of  many 
thousand  departed  friends. 

SILENCE  -  A    FABLE    (1839) 


Ev8pvatv  8'  OQECOV  xoQuqxxi  TE  xai 
riQcooveg  TE  y.al  xagafiQau 

ALCMAN:  60  [10]  646. 

The  mountain  pinnacles   slumber  ;  valleys,  crags,  and   caves 
are  silent. 


300  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE' 

[The  trend  of  the  thought  will  be  better  understood 
if  you  call  the  selection  "Desolation  and  Silence,"  for 
the  fable  is  a  dirge  of  noisy  desolation  succeeded  by 
brooding  and  illimitable  silence.  As  "the  curse  of 
tumult"  marks  the  culmination  of  desolation,  so  "the 
curse  of  silence"  heralds  the  coming  of  unbroken  still 
ness.  A  phrase  from  The  Coliseum,  "Silence!  and 
Desolation !",  contains  the  stepping-stones  of  the  fable, 
though  in  reversed  order.  The  introduction  of  a  single 
character  "in  the  toga  of  old  Rome"  shows  that  Poe, 
as  in  The  Coliseum,  was  thinking  of  desolation  and  si 
lence  against  the  background  of  Rome  that  was.  He 
pictures  here,  however,  not  "the  grandeur  that  was 
Rome"  nor  Roman  memories. 

Clothing  us  in  a  robe  of  more  than  glory. 

The  theme  now  is  "the  abomination  of  desolation'-' 
(Matthew  24:15).  Ruin,  in  other  words,  is  etched  not 
as  we  see  it  through  enhancing  centuries  of  retrospect 
but  "as  an  incubus  upon  our  hearts,  and  a  shadow  upon 
our  brain."  The  lynx  mentioned  in  the  last  sentence 
is  not  a  part  of  the  Demon's  story :  he  is  a  symbol  of 
the  persistent  but  futile  questioning  with  which  hu 
manity  has  always  fronted  the  silences  of  history.] 

"Listen  to  me"  said  the  Demon,  as  he  placed  his 
hand  upon  my  head.  "The  region  of  which  I  speak 
is  a  dreary  region  in  Libya,  by  the  borders  of  the  river 
Zaire.  And  there  is  no  quiet  there,  nor  silence. 

"The  waters  of  the  river  have  a  saffron  and  sickly 
hue ;  and  they  flow  not  onward  to  the  sea,  but  palpi 
tate  forever  and  forever  beneath  the  red  eye  of  the 
sun  with  a  tumultuous  and  convulsive  motion.  For 


•THE  FRONTIERSMAN  301 

many  miles  on  either  side  of  the  river's  oozy  bed  is 
a  pale  desert  of  gigantic  water-lilies.  They  sigh  one 
unto  the  other  in  that  solitude,  and  stretch  towards 
the  heaven  their  long  and  ghastly  necks,  and  nod  to 
and  fro  their  everlasting  heads.  And  there  is  an  in 
distinct  murmur  which  cometh  out  from  among  them 
like  the  rushing  of  subterrene  water.  And  they  sigh 
one  unto  the  other. 

"But  there  is  a  boundary  to  their  realm — the  boun 
dary  of  the  dark,  horrible,  lofty  forest.  There,  like 
the  waves  about  the  Hebrides,  the  low  underwood  is 
agitated  continually.  But  there  is  no  wind  throughout 
the  heaven.  And  the  tall  primeval  trees  rock  eternally 
hither  and  thither  with  a  crashing  and  mighty  sound. 
And  from  their  high  summits,  one  by  one,  drop  ever 
lasting  dews.  And  at  the  roots  strange  poisonous  flow 
ers  lie  writhing  in  perturbed  slumber.  And  over 
head,  with  a  rustling  and  loud  noise,  the  gray  clouds 
rush  westwardly  forever,  until  they  roll,  a  cataract, 
over  the  fiery  wall  of  the  horizon.  But  there  is  no  wind 
throughout  the  heaven.  And  by  the  shores  of  the 
river  Zaire  there  is  neither  quiet  nor  silence. 

"It  was  night,  and  the  rain  fell ;  and,  falling,  it  was 
rain,  but  having  fallen,  it  was  blood.  And  I  stood  in 
the  morass  among  the  tall  lilies,  and  the  rain  fell  upon 
my  head — and  the  lilies  sighed  one  unto  the  other  in 
the  solemnity  of  their  desolation. 

"And,  all  at  once,  the  moon  arose  through  the  thin 
ghastly  mist,  and  was  crimson  in  color.  And  mine 
eyes  fell  upon  a  huge  gray  rock  which  stood  by  the 
shore  of  the  river,  and  was  lighted  by  the  light  of  the 
moon.  And  the  rock  was  gray,  and  ghastly,  and  tall, 
— and  the  rock  was  gray.  Upon  its  front  were  char- 


302  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

acters  engraven  in  the  stone;  and  I  walked  through 
the  morass  of  water-lilies,  until  I  came  close  unto  the 
shore,  that  I  might  read  the  characters  upon  the  stone. 
But  I  could  not  decipher  them.  And  I  was  going 
back  into  the  morass,  when  the  moon  shone  with  a 
fuller  red,  and  I  turned  and  looked  again  upon  the 
rock,  and  upon  the  characters; — and  the  characters 
were  DESOLATION. 

"And  I  looked  upwards,  and  there  stood  a  man 
upon  the  summit  of  the  rock ;  and  I  hid  myself  among 
the  water-lilies  that  I  might  discover  the  actions  of  the 
man.  And  the  man  was  tall  and  stately  in  form,  and 
was  wrapped  up  from  his  shoulders  to  his  feet  in  the 
toga  of  old  Rome.  And  the  outlines  of  his  figure 
were  indistinct — but  his  features  were  the  features  of 
a  deity;  for  the  mantle  of  the  night,  and  of  the 
mist,  and  of  the  moon,  and  of  the  dew,  had  left  uncov 
ered  the  features  of  his  face.  And  his  brow  was  lofty 
with  thought,  and  his  eye  wild  with  care ;  and  in  the 
few  furrows  upon  his  cheek  I  read  the  fables  of  sor 
row,  and  weariness,  and  disgust  with  mankind,  and  a 
longing  after  solitude. 

"And  the  man  sat  upon  the  rock,  and  leaned  his 
head  upon  his  hand,  and  looked  out  upon  the  desola 
tion.  He  looked  down  into  the  low,  unquiet  shrub 
bery,  and  up  into  the  tall  primeval  trees,  and  up  higher 
at  the  rustling  heaven,  and  into  the  crimson  moon. 
And  I  lay  close  within  shelter  of  the  lilies,  and  ob 
served  the  actions  of  the  man.  And  the  man  trembled 
in  the  solitude; — but  the  night  waned,  and  he  sat  upon 
the  rock. 

"And  the  man  turned  his  attention  from  the  heaven, 
and  looked  out  upon  the  dreary  river  Zaire,  and  upon 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  303 

the  yellow  ghastly  waters,  and  upon  the  pale  legions 
of  the  water-lilies.  And  the  man  listened  to  the  sighs 
o£  the  water-lilies,  and  to  the  murmur  that  came  up 
from  among  them.  And  I  lay  close  within  my  covert 
and  observed  the  actions  of  the  man.  And  the  man 
trembled  in  the  solitude: — but  the  night  waned,  and 
he  sat  upon  the  rock. 

"Then  I  went  down  into  the  recesses  of  the  morass, 
and  waded  afar  in  among  the  wilderness  of  the  lilies 
and  called  unto  the  hippopotami  which  dwelt  among 
the  fens  in  the  recesses  of  the  morass.  And  the  hip 
popotami  heard  my  call,  and  came,  with  the  behemoth, 
unto  the  foot  of  the  rock,  and  roared  loudly  and  fear 
fully  beneath  the  moon.  And  I  lay  close  within  my 
covert  and  observed  the  actions  of  the  man.  And  the 
man  trembled  in  the  solitude: — but  the  night  waned 
and  he  sat  upon  the  rock. 

"Then  I  cursed  the  elements  with  the  curse  of 
tumult;  and  a  frightful  tempest  gathered  in  the 
heaven,  where  before  there  had  been  no  wind.  And 
the  heaven  became  livid  with  the  violence  of  the  tem 
pest — and  the  rain  beat  upon  the  head  of  the  man — 
and  the  floods  of  the  river  came  down — and  the  river 
was  tormented  into  foam — and  the  water-lilies  shrieked 
within  their  beds — and  the  forest  crumbled  before  the 
wind — and  the  thunder  rolled — and  the  lightning 
fell — and  the  rock  rocked  to  its  foundation.  And  I 
lay  close  within  my  covert  and  observed  the  actions  of 
the  man.  And  the  man  trembled  in  the  solitude: — 
but  the  night  waned,  and  he  sat  upon  the  rock. 

"Then  I  grew  angry  and  cursed,  with  the  curse  of 
silence,  the  river,  and  the  lilies,  and  the  wind,  and  the 
forest,  and  the  heaven,  and  the  thunder,  and  the  sighs 


304  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

of  the  water-lilies.  And  they  became  accursed,  and 
were  still.  And  the  moon  ceased  to  totter  up  its  path 
way  to  heaven — and  the  thunder  died  away — and  the 
lightning  did  not  flash — and  the  clouds  hung  motion 
less — and  the  waters  sunk  to  their  level  and  remained 
— and  the  trees  ceased  to  rock — and  the  water-lilies 
sighed  no  more — and  the  murmur  was  heard  no  longer 
from  among  them,  nor  any  shadow  of  sound  through 
out  the  vast  illimitable  desert.  And  I  looked  upon  the 
characters  of  the  rock,  and  they  were  changed ; — and 
the  characters  were  SILENCE. 

"And  mine  eyes  fell  upon  the  countenance  of  the 
man,  and  his  countenance  was  wan  with  terror.  And, 
hurriedly,  he  raised  his  head  from  his  hand,  and  stood 
forth  upon  the  rock  and  listened.  But  there  was  no 
voice  throughout  the  vast  illimitable  desert,  and  the 
characters  upon  the  rock  were  SILENCE.  And  the  man 
shuddered,  and  turned  his  face  away,  and  fled  afar  off, 

in  haste,  so  that  I  beheld  him  no  more." 

******* 

Now  there  are  fine  tales  in  the  volumes  of  the  Magi 
— in  the  iron-bound,  melancholy  volumes  of  the  Magi. 
Therein,  I  say,  are  glorious  histories  of  the  Heaven, 
and  of  the  Earth,  and  of  the  mighty  Sea — and  of  the 
Genii  that  overruled  the  sea,  and  the  earth,  and  the 
lofty  heaven.  There  was  much  lore  too  in  the  sayings 
which  were  said  by  the  Sybils;  and  holy,  holy  things 
were  heard  of  old  by  the  dim  leaves  that  trembled 
around  Dodona — but,  as  Allah  liveth,  that  fable  which 
the  Demon  told  me,  as  he  sat  by  my  side  in  the 
shadow  of  the  tomb,  I  hold  to  be  the  most  wonder 
ful  of  all !  And  as  the  Demon  made  an  end  of  his 
story,  he  fell  back  within  the  cavity  of  the  tomb  and 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  305 

laughed.  And  I  could  not  laugh  with  the  Demon, 
and  he  cursed  me  because  I  could  not  laugh.  And 
the  lynx,  which  dwelleth  forever  in  the  tomb,  came 
out  therefrom,  and  lay  down  at  the  feet  of  the  Demon, 
and  looked  at  him  steadily  in  the  face. 

THE    CONVERSATION    OF    EIROS    AND    CHARMION     (1839) 
HVQ  ooi  jtpoaouTG). 

I  will  bring  fire  to  thee. 

EURIPIDES,  Androm.  [257.] 

[The  conversation  pre-supposes  the  fulfillment  of 
those  "passages  in  the  most  holy  writings  which  speak 
of  the  final  destruction  of  all  things  by  fire."  Char- 
mion  and  Eiros  meet  in  the  other  world.  Charmion 
has  been  an  immortal  for  ten  years  but  Eiros  is  new- 
fledged  with  immortality,  having  met  death  only  a 
few  days  before  in  the  universal  conflagration.  Char 
mion  knows  only  the  bare  fact  of  the  catastrophe  and 
is  eager  to  learn  the  details.  Eiros's  description  seems 
to  me  unparalleled  even  in  Poe's  works  for  a  certain 
lurid  vividness  and  sense  of  flame-licked  intensity. 
The  best  touches  are  the  increased  "elasticity  of  frame 
and  vivacity  of  mind"  as  the  comet  approached  and 
"the  wild  luxuriance  of  foliage,  utterly  unknown 
before."] 

Eiros.    Why  do  you  call  me  Eiros? 

Charmion.  So  henceforward  will  you  always  be 
called.  You  must  forget,  too,  my  earthly  name,  and 
speak  to  me  as  Charmion. 

Eiros.    This  is  indeed  no  dream ! 

Clia-rmion.    Dreams  are  with  us  no  more ; — but  of 


306  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

these  mysteries  anon.  I  rejoice  to  see  you  looking  life 
like  and  rational.  The  film  of  the  shadow  has  already 
passed  from  off  your  eyes.  Be  of  heart,  and  fear  noth 
ing.  Your  allotted  days  of  stupor  have  expired ;  and, 
to-morrow,  I  will  myself  induct  you  into  the  full  joys 
and  wonders  of  your  novel  existence. 

Eiros.  True — I  feel  no  stupor — none  at  all.  The 
wild  sickness  and  the  terrible  darkness  have  left  me, 
and  I  hear  no  longer  that  mad,  rushing,  horrible  sound, 
like  the  "voice  of  many  waters."  Yet  my  senses  are 
bewildered,  Charmion,  with  the  keenness  of  their  per 
ception  of  the  new. 

Charmion.  A  few  days  will  remove  all  this ; — but 
I  fully  understand  you,  and  feel  for  you.  It  is  now  ten 
earthly  years  since  I  underwent  what  you  undergo — 
yet  the  remembrance  of  it  hangs  by  me  still.  You  have 
now  suffered  all  of  pain,  however,  which  you  will  suf 
fer  in  Aidenn. 

Eiros.     In  Aidenn? 

Charmion.     In  Aidenn. 

Eiros.  Oh  God ! — pity  me,  Charmion ! — I  am  over- 
burthened  with  the  majesty  of  all  things — of  the  un 
known  now  known — of  the  speculative  Future  merged 
in  the  august  and  certain  Present. 

Charmion.  Grapple  not  now  with  such  thoughts. 
To-morrow  we  will  speak  of  this.  Your  mind  wavers, 
and  its  agitation  will  find  relief  in  the  exercise  of  sim 
ple  memories.  Look  not  around,  nor  forward — but 
back.  I  am  burning  with  anxiety  to  hear  the  details 
of  that  stupendous  event  which  threw  you  among  us. 
Tell  me  of  it.  Let  us  converse  of  familiar  things,  in 
the  old  familiar  language  of  the  world  which  has  so 
fearfully  perished. 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  307 

Eiros.  Most  fearfully,  fearfully! — this  in  indeed 
no  dream. 

Charmion.  Dreams  are  no  more.  Was  I  much 
mourned,  my  Eiros? 

Eiros.  Mourned,  Charmion? — oh  deeply.  To  that 
last  hour  of  all,  there  hung  a  cloud  of  intense  gloom 
and  devout  sorrow  over  your  household. 

Charmion.  And  that  last  hour — speak  of  it.  Re 
member  that,  beyond  the  naked  fact  of  the  catastrophe 
itself,  I  know  nothing.  When,  coming  out  from  among 
mankind,  I  passed  into  Night  through  the  Grave — at 
that  period,  if  I  remember  aright,  the  calamity  which 
overwhelmed  you  was  utterly  unanticipated.  But,  in 
deed,  I  knew  little  of  the  speculative  philosophy  of  the 
day. 

Eiros.  The  individual  calamity  was,  as  you  say, 
entirely  unanticipated ;  but  analogous  misfortunes  had 
been  long  a  subject  of  discussion  with  astronomers.  I 
need  scarce  tell  you,  my  friend,  that,  even  when  you 
left  us,  men  had  agreed  to  understand  those  passages 
in  the  most  holy  writings  which  speak  of  the  final 
destruction  of  all  things  by  fire,  as  having  reference 
to  the  orb  of  the  earth  alone.  But  in  regard  to  the 
immediate  agency  of  the  ruin,  speculation  had  been 
at  fault  from  that  epoch  in  astronomical  knowledge  in 
which  the  comets  were  divested  of  the  terrors  of 
flame.  The  very  moderate  density  of  these  bodies  had 
been  well  establishd.  They  had  been  observed  to  pass 
among  the  satellites  of  Jupiter,  without  bringing  about 
any  sensible  alteration  either  in  the  masses  or  in  the 
orbits  of  these  secondary  planets.  We  had  long  re 
garded  the  wanderers  as  vapoury  creations  of  incon 
ceivable  tenuity,  and  as  altogether  incapable  of  doing 


3o8  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

injury  to  our  substantial  globe,  even  in  the  event  of 
contact.  But  contact  was  not  in  any  degree  dreaded ; 
for  the  elements  of  all  the  comets  were  accurately 
known.  That  among  them  we  should  look  for  the 
agency  of  the  threatened  fiery  destruction  had  been  for 
many  years  considered  an  inadmissible  idea.  But  won 
ders  and  wild  fancies  had  been,  of  late  days,  strangely 
rife  among  mankind;  and,  although  it  was  only  with 
a  few  of  the  ignorant  that  actual  apprehension  pre 
vailed,  upon  the  announcement  by  astronomers  of  a 
new  comet,  yet  this  announcement  was  generally  re 
ceived  with  I  know  not  what  of  agitation  and 
mistrust. 

The  elements  of  the  strange  orb  were  immediately 
calculated,  and  it  was  at  once  conceded  by  all  ob 
servers,  that  its  path,  at  perihelion,  would  bring  it 
into  very  close  proximity  with  the  earth.  There  were 
two  or  three  astronomers,  of  secondary  note,  who 
resolutely  maintained  that  a  contact  was  inevitable.  I 
cannot  very  well  express  to  you  the  effect  of  this  in 
telligence  upon  the  people.  For  a  few  short  days  they 
would  not  believe  an  assertion  which  their  intellect,  so 
long  employed  among  worldly  considerations,  could 
not  in  any  manner  grasp.  But  the  truth  of  a  vitally 
important  fact  soon  makes  its  way  into  the  under 
standing  of  even  the  most  stolid.  Finally,  all  men 
saw  that  astronomical  knowledge  lied  not,  and  they 
awaited  the  comet.  Its  approach  was  not,  at  first, 
seemingly  rapid;  nor  was  its  appearance  of  very  un 
usual  character.  It  was  of  a  dull  red,  and  had  little 
perceptible  train.  For  seven  or  eight  days  we  saw  no 
material  increase  in  its  apparent  diameter,  and  but  a 
partial  alteration  in  its  colour.  Meantime,  the  ordinary 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  309 

affairs  of  men  were  discarded,  and  all  interests  ab 
sorbed  in  a  growing  discussion,  instituted  by  the  phil 
osophic,  in  respect  to  the  cometary  nature.  Even  the 
grossly  ignorant  aroused  their  sluggish  capacities  to 
such  considerations.  The  learned  now  gave  their  in 
tellect — their  soul — to  no  such  points  as  the  allaying 
of  fear,  or  to  the  sustenance  of  loved  theory.  They 
sought — they  panted  for  right  views.  They  groaned 
for  perfected  knowledge.  Truth  arose  in  the  purity  of 
her  strength  and  exceeding  majesty,  and  the  wise 
bowed  down  and  adored. 

That  material  injury  to  our  globe  or  to  its  inhabi 
tants  would  result  from  the  apprehended  contact,  was 
an  opinion  which  hourly  lost  ground  among  the  wise ; 
and  the  wise  were  now  freely  permitted  to  rule  the 
reason  and  the  fancy  of  the  crowd.  It  was  demon 
strated,  that  the  density  of  the  comet's  nucleus  was  far 
less  than  that  of  our  rarest  gas ;  and  the  harmless  pas 
sage  of  a  similar  visitor  among  the  satellites  of  Jupiter 
was  a  point  strongly  insisted  upon,  and  which  served 
greatly  to  allay  terror.  Theologists,  with  an  earnest 
ness  fear-enkindled,  dwelt  upon  the  biblical  prophecies, 
and  expounded  them  to  the  people  with  a  directness 
and  simplicity  of  which  no  previous  instance  had  been 
known.  That  the  final  destruction  of  the  earth  must 
be  brought  about  by  the  agency  of  fire,  was  urged  with 
a  spirit  that  enforced  everywhere  conviction ;  and  that 
the  comets  were  of  no  fiery  nature  (as  all  men  now 
knew)  was  a  truth  which  relieved  all,  in  a  great 
measure,  from  the  apprehension  of  the  great  calamity 
foretold.  It  is  noticeable  that  the  popular  prejudices 
and  vulgar  errors  in  regard  to  pestilence  and  wars — 
errors  which  were  wont  to  prevail  upon  every  appear- 


3io  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

ance  of  a  comet — were  now  altogether  unknown.  As 
if  by  some  sudden  convulsive  exertion,  reason  had  at 
once  hurled  superstition  from  her  throne.  The 
feeblest  intellect  had  derived  vigour  from  excessive 
interest. 

What  minor  evils  might  arise  from  the  contact  were 
points  of  elaborate  question.  The  learned  spoke  of 
slight  geological  disturbances,  of  probable  alterations 
in  climate,  and  consequently  in  vegetation ;  of  possible 
magnetic  and  electric  influences.  Many  held  that  no 
visible  or  perceptible  effect  would  in  a'ny  manner  be 
produced.  While  such  discussions  were  going  on,  their 
subject  gradually  approached,  growing  larger  in  ap 
parent  diameter,  and  of  a  more  brilliant  lustre.  Man 
kind  grew  paler  as  it  came.  All  human  operations 
were  suspended. 

There  was  an  epoch  in  the  course  of  the  general 
sentiment  when  the  comet  had  attained,  at  length,  a 
size  surpassing  that  of  any  previously  recorded  visita 
tion.  The  people  now,  dismissing  any  lingering  hope 
that  the  astronomers  were  wrong,  experienced  all  the 
certainty  of  evil.  The  chimerical  aspect  of  their  ter 
ror  was  gone.  The  hearts  of  the  stoutest  of  our  race 
beat  violently  within  their  bosoms.  A  very  few  days 
sufficed,  however,  to  merge  even  such  feelings  in  sen 
timents  more  unendurable.  We  could  no  longer  apply 
to  the  strange  orb  any  accustomed  thoughts.  Its  his 
torical  attributes  had  disappeared.  It  oppressed  us  with 
a  hideous  novelty  of  emotion.  We  saw  it  not  as  an 
astronomical  phenomenon  in  the  heavens,  but  as  an  in 
cubus  upon  our  hearts,  and  a  shadow  upon  our  brains. 
It  had  taken,  with  inconceivable  rapidity,  the  character 
of  a  gigantic  mantle  of  rare  flame,  extending  from 
horizon  to  horizon. 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  311 

Yet  a  day,  and  men  breathed  with  greater  freedom. 
It  was  clear  that  we  were  already  within  the  influence 
of  the  comet ;  yet  we  lived.  We  even  felt  an  unusual 
elasticity  of  frame  and  vivacity  of  mind.  The  exceed 
ing  tenuity  of  the  object  of  our  dread  was  apparent; 
for  all  heavenly  objects  were  plainly  visible  through  it. 
Meantime,  our  vegetation  had  perceptibly  altered ;  and 
we  gained  faith,  from  this  predicted  circumstance,  in 
the  foresight  of  the  wise.  A  wild  luxuriance  of  fol 
iage,  utterly  unknown  before,  burst  out  upon  every 
vegetable  thing. 

Yet  another  day — and  the  evil  was  not  altogether 
upon  us.  It  was  now  evident  that  its  nucleus  would 
first  reach  us.  A  wild  change  had  come  over  all  men ; 
and  the  first  sense  of  pain  was  the  wild  signal  for 
general  lamentation  and  horror.  This  first  sense  of 
pain  lay  in  a  rigorous  constriction  of  the  breast  and 
lungs,  and  an  insufferable  dryness  of  the  skin.  It 
could  not  be  denied  that  our  atmosphere  was  radically 
affected ;  the  conformation  of  this  atmosphere  and  the 
possible  modifications  to  which  it  might  be  subjected, 
were  now  the  topics  of  discussion.  The  result  of  in 
vestigation  sent  an  electric  thrill  of  the  intensest 
terror  through  the  universal  heart  of  man. 

It  had  been  long  known  that  the  air  which  encircled 
us  was  a  compound  of  oxygen  and  nitrogen  gases,  in 
the  proportion  of  twenty-one  measures  of  oxygen,  and 
seventy-nine  of  nitrogen,  in  every  one  hundred  of  the 
atmosphere.  Oxygen,  which  was  the  principle  of  com 
bustion,  and  the  vehicle  of  heat,  was  absolutely  neces 
sary  to  the  support  of  animal  life,  and  wras  the  most 
powerful  and  energetic  agent  in  nature.  Nitrogen,  on 
the  contrary,  was  incapable  of  supporting  either  animal 


312  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

life  or  flame.  An  unnatural  excess  of  oxygen  would 
result,  it  had  been  ascertained,  in  just  such  an  eleva 
tion  of  the  animal  spirits  as  we  had  latterly  experi 
enced.  It  was  the  pursuit,  the  extension  of  the  idea, 
which  had  engendered  awe.  What  would  be  the  re 
sult  of  a  total  extraction  of  the  nitrogen  ?  A  combus 
tion  irresistible,  all-devouring,  omni-prevalent,  imme 
diate  ; — the  entire  fulfilment,  in  all  their  minute  and 
terrible  details,  of  the  fiery  and  horror-inspiring  de 
nunciations  of  the  prophecies  of  the  Holy  Book. 

Why  need  I  paint,  Charmion,  the  now  disenchained 
phrenzy  of  mankind  ?  That  tenuity  in  the  comet  which 
had  previously  inspired  us  with  hope,  was  now  the 
source  of  the  bitterness  of  despair.  In  its  impalpable 
gaseous  character  we  clearly  perceived  the  consumma 
tion  of  Fate.  Meantime  a  day  again  passed — bearing 
away  with  it  the  last  shadow  of  Hope.  We  gasped  in 
the  rapid  modification  of  the  air.  The  red  blood 
bounded  tumultuously  through  its  strict  channels.  A 
furious  delirium  possessed  all  men;  and,  with  arms 
rigidly  outstretched  towards  the  threatening  heavens, 
they  trembled  and  shrieked  aloud.  But  the  nucleus  of 
the  destroyer  was  now  upon  us ; — even  here  in  Aidenn, 
I  shudder  while  I  speak.  Let  me  be  brief — brief  as 
the  ruin  that  overwhelmed.  For  a  moment  there  was 
a  wild  lurid  light  alone,  visiting  and  penetrating  all 
things.  Then  let  us  bow  down,  Charmion,  before  the 
excessive  majesty  of  the  great  God! — then,  there  came 
a  shouting  and  pervading  sound,  as  if  from  the  mouth 
itself  of  HIM ;  while  the  whole  incumbent  mass  of 
ether  in  which  we  existed,  burst  at  once  into  a  species 
of  intense  flame,  for  whose  surpassing  brilliancy  and 
all-fervid  heat  even  the  angels  in  the  high  Heaven 
pf  pure  knowledge  have  no  name.  Thus  ended  all. 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  313 

THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  FAY   (1841) 
Nullus  enim  locus  sine  genio  est. — SERVIUS. 

[In    his   Sonnet — To    Science    (1829),    Poe    had 
asked : 

Hast  thoti  not  torn  the  Naiad  from  her  flood, 
The  Elfin  from  the  green  grass,  and  from  me 
The  summer  dream  beneath  the  tamarind  tree? 

But  here  is  a  dream  beneath  the  tamarind  tree  and  a 
vision  of  a  Naiad  on  her  flood,  in  spite  of  science. 
Every  passing  of  a  Fay,  every  incursion  of  science  into 
the  domain  of  nature-worship,  every  victory  won  by 
knowledge  over  beauty  and  the  shaping  imagination  is 
a  diminution  of  the  light  of  life  and  an  enlargement  of 
the  encompassing  shadow.  "Is  it  dream  or  reality?" 
asks  Lauvriere.  It  is  both.  The  second  paragraph 
shows  its  author's  nature-piety  at  its  best.] 

"La  musique"  says  Marmontel,  in  those  "Contes 
Moraux"2  which,  in  all  our  translations,  we  have 
insisted  upon  calling  "Moral  Tales"  as  if  in  mockery 
of  their  spirit — "la  musique  est  le  seul  des  talens  qui 
fouissent  de  lui-meme;  tous  les  autres  veulent  des 
temoins."  He  here  confounds  the  pleasure  derivable 
from  sweet  sounds  with  the  capacity  for  creating  them. 
No  more  than  any  other  talent,  is  that  for  music  sus 
ceptible  of  complete  enjoyment,  where  there  is  no  sec 
ond  party  to  appreciate  its  exercise.  And  it  is  only  in 
common  with  other  talents  that  it  produces  effects 
which  may  be  fully  enjoyed  in  solitude.  The  idea 
which  the  raconteur  has  either  failed  to  entertain 

zMoraux  is  here  derived  from  mocurs  and  its  meaning  is 
"fashionable"  or,  more  strictly,  "of  manners."     (Poe's  Note.) 


314  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

clearly,  or  has  sacrificed  in  its  expression  to  his  na 
tional  love  of  point,  is,  doubtless,  the  very  tenable  one 
that  the  higher  order  of  music  is  the  most  thoroughly 
estimated  when  we  are  exclusively  alone.  The  prop 
osition  in  this  form  will  be  admitted  at  once  by 
those  who  love  the  lyre  for  its  own  sake,  and  for  its 
spiritual  uses. 

But  there  is  one  pleasure  still  within  the  reach  of 
fallen  mortality — and  perhaps  only  one — which  owes 
even  more  than  does  music  to  the  accessory  sentiment 
of  seclusion.  I  mean  the  happiness  experienced  in  the 
contemplation  of  natural  scenery.  In  truth,  the  man 
who  would  behold  aright  the  glory  of  God  upon  earth 
must  in  solitude  behold  that  glory.  To  me,  at  least, 
the  presence — not  of  human  life  only — but  of  life  in 
any  other  form  than  that  of  the  green  things  which 
grow  upon  the  soil  and  are  voiceless — is  a  stain  upon 
the  landscape — is  at  war  with  the  genius  of  the  scene. 
I  love,  indeed,  to  regard  the  dark  valleys,  and  the 
grey  rocks,  and  the  waters  that  silently  smile,  and  the 
forests  that  sigh  in  uneasy  slumbers,  and  the  proud 
watchful  mountains  that  look  down  upon  all — I  love 
to  regard  these  as  themselves  but  the  colossal  members 
of  one  vast  animate  and  sentient  whole — a  whole 
whose  form  (that  of  the  sphere)  is  the  most  perfect 
and  most  inclusive  of  all ;  whose  path  is  among  asso 
ciate  planets ;  whose  meek  handmaiden  is  the  moon ; 
whose  mediate  sovereign  is  the  sun ;  whose  life  is 
eternity;  whose  thought  is  that  of  a  God;  whose  en 
joyment  is  knowledge ;  whose  destinies  are  lost  in  im 
mensity  ;  whose  cognizance  of  ourselves  is  akin  with 
our  own  cognizance  of  the  animalcule?  which  infest 
the  brain — a  being  which  we,  in  consequence,  regard 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  315 

as  purely  inanimate  and  material,  much  in  the  same 
manner  as  these  animalcule?  must  thus  regard  us. 

Our  telescopes  and  our  mathematical  investiga 
tions  assure  us  on  every  hand — notwithstanding  the 
cant  of  the  more  ignorant  of  the  priesthood — that 
space,  and  therefore  that  bulk,  is  an  important  con 
sideration  in  the  eyes  of  the  Almighty.  The  cycles 
in  which  the  stars  move  are  those  best  adapted  for  the 
evolution,  without  collision,  of  the  greatest  possible 
number  of  bodies.  The  forms  of  those  bodies  are 
accurately  such  as,  within  a  given  surface,  to 
include  the  greatest  possible  amount  of  matter; 
• — while  the  surfaces  themselves  are  so  disposed 
as  to  accommodate  a  denser  population  than 
could  be  accommodated  on  the  same  surfaces  other 
wise  arranged.  Nor  is  it  any  argument  against  bulk 
being  an  object  with  God,  that  space  itself  is  infinite ; 
for  there  may  be  an  infinity  of  matter  to  fill  it.  And 
since  we  see  clearly  that  the  endowment  of  matter  with 
vitality  is  a  principle — indeed  as  far  as  our  judgments 
extend,  the  leading  principle  in  the  operations  of  Deity 
— it  is  scarcely  logical  to  imagine  it  confined  to  the 
regions  of  the  minute,  where  we  daily  trace  it,  and  not 
extending  to  those  of  the  august.  As  we  find  cycle 
within  cycle  without  end — yet  all  revolving  around  one 
far-distant  centre  which  is  the  Godhead,  may  we  not 
analogically  suppose,  in  the  same  manner,  life  within 
life,  the  less  within  the  greater,  and  all  within  the 
Spirit  Divine?  In  short,  we  are  madly  erring, 
through  self-esteem,  in  believing  man,  in  either  his 
temporal  or  future  destinies,  to  be  of  more  moment  in 
the  universe  than  that  vast  "clod  of  the  valley"  which 
he  tills  and  contemns,  and  to  which  he  denies  a  soul 


3i6  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

for  no  more  profound  reason  than  that  he  does  not  be 
hold  it  in  operation.3 

These  fancies,  and  such  as  these,  have  always  given 
to  my  meditations  among  the  mountains,  and  the  for 
ests,  by  the  rivers  and  the  ocean,  a  tinge  of  what  the 
every-day  world  would  not  fail  to  term  the  fantastic. 
My  wanderings  amid  such  scenes  have  been  many,  and 
far-searching,  and  often  solitary ;  and  the  interest  with 
which  I  have  strayed  through  many  a  dim  deep  valley, 
or  gazed  into  the  reflected  Heaven  of  many  a  bright 
lake,  has  been  an  interest  greatly  deepened  by  the 
thought  that  I  have  strayed  and  gazed  alone.  What 
flippant  Frenchman4  was  it  who  said,  in  allusion  to 
the  well-known  wrork  of  Zimmerman,  that,  "la  solitude 
est  une  belle  chose;  mais  il  faut  quelqu'  un  pour  vous 
dire  que  la  solitude  est  une  belle  chose."  The  epigram 
cannot  be  gainsaid;  but  the  necessity  is  a  thing  that 
does  not  exist. 

It  was  during  one  of  my  lonely  journeyings,  amid 
a  far-distant  region  of  mountain  locked  within  moun 
tain,  and  sad  rivers  and  melancholy  tarns  writhing  or 
sleeping  within  all — that  I  chanced  upon  a  certain 
rivulet  and  island.  I  came  upon  them  suddenly  in  the 
leafy  June,  and  threw  myself  upon  the  turf,  beneath 
the  branches  of  an  unknown  odorous  shrub,  that  I 
might  doze  as  I  contemplated  the  scene.  I  felt  that 
thus  only  should  I  look  upon  it — such  was  the  char 
acter  of  phantasm  which  it  wore. 

On  all  sides — save  to  the  west,  where  the  sun  was 

8Speaking  of  the  tides,  Pomponius  Mela,  in  his  treatise 
"De  Situ  Orbis,"  says  "either  the  world  is  a  great  animal, 
or"  etc.  (Poe's  Note.) 

4Balzac — in  substance — T  do  not  remember  the  words, 
(Poe's  Note.) 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  317 

about  sinking — arose  the  verdant  walls  of  the  forest. 
The  little  river  which  turned  sharply  in  its  course,  and 
was  thus  immediately  lost  to  sight,  seemed  to  have  no 
exit  from  its  prison,  but  to  be  absorbed  by  the  deep 
green  foliage  of  the  trees  to  the  east — while  in  the  op 
posite  quarter  (so  it  appeared  to  me  as  I  lay  at  length 
and  glanced  upward)  there  poured  down  noiselessly 
and  continuously  into  the  valley,  a  rich  golden  and 
crimson  water- fall  from  the  sunset  fountains  of  the  sky. 
About  midway  in  the  short  vista  which  my  dreamy 
vision  took  in,  one  small  circular  island,  profusely  ver- 
dured,  reposed  upon  the  bosom  of  the  stream. 

So  blended  bank  and  shadow  there, 
That  each  seemed  pendulous  in  air — 

so  mirror-like  was  the  glassy  water,  that  it  was 
scarcely  possible  to  say  at  what  point  upon  the  slope 
of  the  emerald  turf  its  crystal  dominion  began. 

My  position  enabled  me  to  include  in  a  single  view 
both  the  eastern  and  western  extremities  of  the  islet; 
and  I  observed  a  singularly-marked  difference  in  their 
aspects.  The  latter  was  all  one  radiant  harem  of  gar 
den  beauties.  It  glowed  and  blushed  beneath  the  eye 
of  the  slant  sunlight,  and  fairly  laughed  with  flowers. 
The  grass  was  short,  springy,  sweet-scented,  and  As 
phodel-interspersed.  The  trees  were  lithe,  mirthful, 
erect — bright,  slender  and  graceful — of  eastern  figure 
and  foliage,  with  bark  smooth,  glossy,  and  parti-col 
ored.  There  seemed  a  deep  sense  of  life  and  joy  about 
all ;  and  although  no  airs  blew  from  out  the  Heavens, 
yet  everything  had  motion  through  the  gentle  sweep 
ings  to  and  fro  of  innumerable  butterflies,  that  might 
have  been  mistaken  for  tulips  with  wings.8 

8Florem  putares  nare  per  liquidum  aethera.— P.  Commire. 
(Foe's  Note.) 


3i8  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

The  other  or  eastern  end  of  the  isle  was  whelmed 
in  the  blackest  shade.  A  sombre,  yet  beautiful  and 
peaceful  gloom  here  pervaded  all  things.  The  trees 
were  dark  in  color  and  mournful  in  form  and  attitude 
— wreathing  themselves  into  sad,  solemn,  and  spectral 
shapes,  that  conveyed  ideas  of  mortal  sorrow  and  un 
timely  death.  The  grass  wore  the  deep  tint  of  the  cy 
press,  and  the  heads  of  its  blades  hung  droopingly, 
and,  hither  and  thither  among  it,  were  many  small  un 
sightly  hillocks,  low,  and  narrow,  and  not  very  long, 
that  had  the  aspect  of  graves,  but  were  not ;  although 
over  and  all  about  them  the  rue  and  rosemary  clam 
bered.  The  shade  of  the  trees  fell  heavily  upon  the 
water,  and  seemed  to  bury  itself  therein,  impregnating 
the  depths  of  the  element  with  darkness.  I  fancied 
that  each  shadow,  as  the  sun  descended  lower  and 
lower,  separated  itself  sullenly  from  the  trunk  that 
gave  it  birth,  and  thus  became  absorbed  by  the  stream ; 
while  other  shadows  issued  momently  from  the  trees, 
taking  the  place  of  their  predecessors  thus  entombed. 

This  idea,  having  once  seized  upon  my  fancy, 
greatly. excited  it,  and  I  lost  myself  forthwith  in  rev 
erie.  "If  ever  island  were  enchanted," — said  I  to  my 
self — "this  is  it.  This  is  the  haunt  of  the  few  gentle 
Fays  who  remain  from  the  wreck  of  the  race.  Are 
these  green  tombs  theirs? — or  do  they  yield  up  their 
sweet  lives  as  mankind  yield  up  their  own?  In  dying, 
do  they  not  rather  waste  away  mournfully ;  rendering 
unto  God  little  by  little  their  existence,  as  these  trees 
render  up  shadow  after  shadow,  exhausting  their  sub 
stance  unto  dissolution  ?  What  the  wasting  tree  is  to 
the  water  that  imbibes  its  shade,  growing  thus  blacker 
by  what  it  preys  upon,  may  not  the  life  of  the  Fay  be 
to  the  death  which  engulfs  it  ?" 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  319 

As  I  thus  mused,  with  half-shut  eyes,  while  the  sun 
sank  rapidly  to  rest,  and  eddying  currents  careered 
round  and  round  the  island,  bearing  upon  their  bosom 
large,  dazzling,  white  flakes  of  the  bark  of  the  syca 
more — flakes  which,  in  their  multiform  positions  upon 
the  water,  a  quick  imagination  might  have  converted 
into  anything  it  pleased — while  I  thus  mused,  it  ap 
peared  to  me  that  the  form  of  one  of  those  very  Fays 
about  whom  I  had  been  pondering,  made  its  way 
slowly  into  the  darkness  from  out  the  light  at  the 
western  end  of  the  island.  She  stood  erect,  in  a  sin 
gularly  fragile  canoe,  and  urged  it  with  the  mere 
phantom  of  an  oar.  While  within  the  influence  of  the 
lingering  sunbeams,  her  attitude  seemed  indicative  of 
joy — but  sorrow  deformed  it  as  she  passed  within  the 
shade.  Slowly  she  glided  along,  and  at  length 
rounded  the  islet  and  re-entered  the  region  of  light. 
"The  revolution  which  has  just  been  made  by  the 
Fay,"  continued  I  musingly — "is  the  cycle  of  the  brief 
year  of  her  life. 

"She  has  floated  through  her  winter  and  through1 
her  summer.  She  is  a  year  nearer  unto  Death :  for  I 
did  not  fail  to  see  that  as  she  came  into  the  shade,  her 
shadow  fell  from  her,  and  was  swallowed  up  in  the 
dark  water,  making  its  blackness  more  black." 

And  again  the  boat  appeared,  and  the  Fay ;  but 
about  the  attitude  of  the  latter  there  was  more  of  care 
and  uncertainty,  and  less  of  elastic  joy.  She  floated 
again  from  out  the  light,  and  into  the  gloom  (which 
deepened  momently)  and  again  her  shadow  fell  from 
her  into  the  ebony  water,  and  became  absorbed  into 
its  blackness.  And  again  and  again  she  made  the  cir 
cuit  of  the  island,  (while  the  sun  rushed  down  to  his 


320  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

slumbers)  and  at  each  issuing  into  the  light,  there  was 
more  sorrow  about  her  person,  while  it  grew  feebler, 
and  far  fainter,  and  more  indistinct  ;  and  at  each  pas 
sage  into  the  gloom,  there  fell  from  her  a  darker  shade, 
which  became  whelmed  in  a  shadow  more  black.  But 
at  length,  when  the  sun  had  utterly  departed,  the  Fay 
now  the  mere  ghost  of  her  former  self,  went  disconso 
lately  with  her  boat  into  the  region  of  the  ebony  flood, 
—  and  that  she  issued  thence  at  all  I  cannot  say,  —  for 
darkness  fell  over  all  things,  and  I  beheld  her  magical 
figure  no  more. 

THE  COLLOQUY  OF  MONOS  AND  UNA   (1841) 


These   things   are   in  the   future. 

SOPHOCLES,  Antig.    [1334! 

[This  is  a  companion  piece  to  The  Conversation  of 
Eiros  and  Charmion.  Monos  died  first  but  Una  soon 
followed  him.  A  century  has  passed  and  they  are  to 
gether  again.  Monos  has  just  said  :  "That  man,  as  a 
race,  should  not  become  extinct,  I  saw  that  he  must  be 
'born  again.'  ''  On  the  meaning  of  the  two  words  the 
colloquy  begins.  Monos's  last  speech,  telling  what  it 
means  to  die,  that  is,  to  be  born  again,  is  an  earlier 
prose  sketch  of  For  Annie.  See  page  232.  Of  course 
the  colloquy  is  more  philosophic  than  the  lyric,  there 
being  no  place  in  verse  for  so  subtle  a  thought  as  the 
birth  of  a  sixth  sense  from  the  chaos  of  our  mundane 
five.  Note  the  Ruskinian  flavor  in:  "Meantime  huge 
smoking  cities  arose,  innumerable.  Green  leaves 
shrank  before  the  hot  breath  of  furnaces.  The  fair 
face  of  Nature  was  deformed  as  with  the  ravages  of 
some  loathsome  disease."] 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  321 

Una.     "Born  again"? 

Monos.  Yes,  fairest  and  best-beloved  Una,  "born 
again."  These  were  the  words  upon  whose  mystical 
meaning  I  had  so  long  pondered,  rejecting  the  explana 
tions  of  the  priesthood,  until  Death  himself  resolved 
for  me  the  secret. 

Una.    Death ! 

Monos.  How  strangely,  sweet  Una,  you  echo  my 
words!  I  observe,  too,  a  vacillation  in  your  step — a 
joyous  inquietude  in  your  eyes.  You  are  confused 
and  oppressed  by  the  majestic  novelty  of  the  Life 
Eternal.  Yes,  it  was  of  Death  I  spoke.  And  here  how 
singularly  sounds  that  word  which  of  old  was  wont  to 
bring  terror  to  all  hearts — throwing  a  mildew  upon  all 
pleasures ! 

Una.  Ah,  Death,  the  spectre  which  sate  at  all 
feasts !  How  often,  Monos,  did  we  lose  ourselves  in 
speculations  upon  its  nature!  How  mysteriously  did 
it  act  as  a  check  to  human  bliss — saying  unto  it  "thus 
far,  and  no  farther" !  That  earnest  mutual  love,  my 
own  Monos,  which  burned  within  our  bosoms — how 
vainly  did  we  flatter  ourselves,  feeling  happy  in  its 
first  up-springing,  that  our  happiness  would 
strengthen  with  its  strength!  Alas!  as  it  grew,  so 
grew  in  our  hearts  the  dread  of  that  evil  hour  which 
was  hurrying  to  separate  us  forever!  Thus,  in  time, 
it  became  painful  to  love.  Hate  would  have  been 
mercy  then. 

Monos.  Speak  not  here  of  these  griefs,  dear  Una 
— mine,  mine  forever  now  ! 

Una.  But  the  memory  of  past  sorrow — is  it  not 
present  joy?  I  have  much  to  say  yet  of  the  things 
which  have  been.  Above  all,  I  burn  to  know  the  inci- 


322  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

dents  of  your  own  passage  through  the  dark  Valley 
and  Shadow. 

Monos.  And  when  did  the  radiant  Una  ask  any 
thing  of  her  Monos  in  vain  ?  I  will  be  minute  in  re 
lating  all — but  at  what  point  shall  the  weird  narrative 
begin  ? 

Una.    At  what  point? 

Monos.     You  have  said. 

Una.  Monos,  I  comprehend  you.  In  Death  we 
have  both  learned  the  propensity  of  man  to  define  the 
indefinable.  I  will  not  say,  then,  commence  with  the 
moment  of  life's  cessation — but  commence  with  that 
sad,  sad  instant  when,  the  fever  having  abandoned 
you,  you  sank  into  a  breathless  and  motionless  torpor, 
and  I  pressed  down  your  pallid  eyelids  with  the  pas 
sionate  fingers  of  love. 

Monos.  One  word  first,  my  Una,  in  regard  to 
man's  general  condition  at  this  epoch.  You  will  re 
member  that  one  or  two  of  the  wise  among  our  fore 
fathers — wise  in  fact,  although  not  in  the  world's  es 
teem — had  ventured  to  doubt  the  propriety  of  the 
term  "improvement,"  as  applied  to  the  progress  of  our 
civilization.  There  were  periods  in  each  of  the  five 
or  six  centuries  immediately  preceding  our  dissolution, 
when  arose  some  vigorous  intellect,  boldly  contending 
for  those  principles  whose  truth  appears  now,  to  our 
disenfranchised  reason,  so  utterly  obvious — principles 
which  should  have  taught  our  race  to  submit  to  the 
guidance  of  the  natural  laws,  rather  than  attempt  their 
control.  At  long  intervals  some  master-minds  ap 
peared,  looking  upon  each  advance  in  practical  science 
as  a  retro-gradation  in  the  true  utility.  Occasionally 
the  poetic  intellect — that  intellect  which  we  now  feel 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  323 

to  have  been  the  most  exalted  of  all — since  those 
truths  which  to  us  were  of  the  most  enduring  import 
ance  could  only  be  reached  by  that  analogy  which 
speaks  in  proof-tones  to  the  imagination  alone,  and  to 
the  unaided  reason  bears  no  weight — occasionally  did 
this  poetic  intellect  proceed  a  step  farther  in  the  evolv 
ing  of  the  vague  idea  of  the  philosophic,  and  find  in 
the  mystic  parable  that  tells  of  the  tree  of  knowledge, 
and  of  its  forbidden  fruit,  death-producing,  a  distinct 
intimation  that  knowledge  was  not  meet  for  man  in 
the  infant  condition  of  his  soul.  And  these  men — the 
poets — living  and  perishing  amid  the  scorn  of  the 
"utilitarians" — of  rough  pedants,  who  arrogated  to 
themselves  a  title  which  could  have  been  properly  ap 
plied  only  to  the  scorned — these  men,  the  poets,  pon 
dered  piningly,  yet  not  unwisely,  upon  the  ancient  days 
when  our  wants  were  not  more  simple  than  our  en 
joyments  were  keen — days  when  mirth  was  a  word  un 
known,  so  solemnly  deep-toned  was  happiness — holy, 
august  and  blissful  days,  when  blue  rivers  ran  un- 
damned,  between  hills  unhewn,  into  far  forest  soli 
tudes,  primaeval,  odorous,  and  unexplored. 

Yet  these  noble  exceptions  from  the  general  mis 
rule  served  but  to  strengthen  it  by  opposition.  Alas ! 
we  had  fallen  upon  the  most  evil  of  all  our  evil  days. 
The  great  "movement" — that  was  the  cant  term — 
went  on :  a  diseased  commotion,  moral  and  physical. 
Art — the  Arts — arose  supreme,  and,  once  enthroned, 
cast  chains  upon  the  intellect  which  had  elevated  them 
to  power.  Man,  because  he  could  not  but  acknowl 
edge  the  majesty  of  Nature,  fell  into  childish  exulta 
tion  at  his  acquired  and  still-increasing  dominion  over 
her  elements.  Even  while  he  stalked  a  God  in  his  own 


324  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

fancy,  an  infantine  imbecility  came  over  him.  As 
might  be  supposed  from  the  origin  of  his  disorder,  he 
grew  infected  with  system,  and  with  abstraction.  He 
enwrapped  himself  in  generalities.  Among  other  odd 
ideas,  that  of  universal  equality  gained  ground ;  and  in 
the  face  of  analogy  and  of  God — in  despite  of  the  loud 
warning  voice  of  the  laws  of  gradation  so  visibly  per 
vading  all  things  in  Earth  and  Heaven — wild  attempts 
at  an  omni-prevalent  Democracy  were  made.  Yet 
this  evil  sprang  necessarily  from  the  leading  evil, 
Knowledge.  Man  could  not  both  know  and  succumb. 
Meantime  huge  smoking  cities  arose,  innumerable. 
Green  leaves  shrank  before  the  hot  breath  of  furnaces. 
The  fair  face  of  Nature  was  deformed  as  with  the  rav 
ages  of  some  loathsome  disease.  And  methinks, 
sweet  Una,  even  our  slumbering  sense  of  the  forced 
and  of  the  far-fetched  might  have  arrested  us  here. 
But  now  it  appears  that  we  had  worked  out  our  own 
destruction  in  the  perversion  of  our  taste,  or  rather  in 
the  blind  neglect  of  its  culture  in  the  schools.6  For,  in 


e'Tt  will  be  hard  to  discover  a  better  [method  of  educa 
tion!  than  that  which  the  experience  of  so  many  ages  has  al 
ready  discovered;  and  this  may  be  summed  up  as  consisting 
in  gymnastics  for  the  body,  and  music  for  the  soul." — Repub. 
lib.  2.  "For  this  reason  is  a  musical  education  most  essential ; 
since  it  causes  Rhythm  and  Harmony  to  penetrate  most  inti 
mately  into  the  soul,  taking  the  strongest  hold  upon  it,  filling 
it  with  beauty  and  making  the  man  beautiful-minded . . .  .He 
will  praise  and  admire  the  beautiful;  will  receive  it  with  joy 
into  his  soul,  will  feed  upon  it,  and  assimilate  his  own  condi 
tion  with  it." — Ibid.  lib.  3.  Music  (iiouaixri)  had,  how 
ever,  among  the  Athenians,  a  far  more  comprehensive  signi 
fication  than  with  us.  It  included  not  only  the  harmonies  of 
time  and  of  tune,  but  the  poetic  diction,  sentiment,  and  crea 
tion,  each  in  its  widest  sense.  The  study  of  music  was  with 
them,  in  fact,  the  general  cultivation  of  the  taste — of  that 
which  recognizes  the  beautiful — in  centra-distinction  from 
reason,  which  deals  only  with  the  true.  (Poe's  Note.) 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  325 

truth,  it  was  at  this  crisis  that  taste  alone— that  faculty 
which,  holding  a  middle  position  between  the  pure  in 
tellect  and  the  moral  sense,  could  never  safely  have 
been  disregarded — it  was  now  that  taste  alone  could 
have  led  us  gently  back  to  Beauty,  to  Nature,  and  to 
Life.  But  alas  for  the  pure  contemplative  spirit  and 
majestic  intuition  of  Plato!  Alas  for  the  pouffiK-fi 
which  he  justly  regarded  as  an  all-sufficient  education 
for  the  soul!  Alas  for  him  and  for  it! — since  both 
were  so  desperately  needed  when  both  were  most  en 
tirely  forgotten  or  despised. 

Pascal,  a  philosopher  whom  we  both  love,  has  said, 
how  truly ! —  "que  tout  noire  raisonnement  se  reduit  & 
ceder  au  sentiment" ;  and  it  is  not  impossible  that  the 
sentiment  of  the  natural,  had  time  permitted  it,  would 
have  regained  its  old  ascendancy  over  the  harsh 
mathematical  reason  of  the  schools.  But  this  thing 
was  not  to  be.  Prematurely  induced  by  intemperance 
of  knowledge,  the  old  age  of  the  world  drew  on.  This 
the  mass  of  mankind  saw  not,  or,  living  lustily  al 
though  unhappily,  affected  not  to  see.  But,  for  my 
self,  the  Earth's  records  had  taught  me  to  look  for 
widest  ruin  as  the  price  of  highest  civilization.  I  had 
imbibed  a  prescience  of  our  Fate  from  comparison  of 
China  the  simple  and  enduring,  with  Assyria  the  archi 
tect,  with  Egypt  the  astrologer,  with  Nubia,  more 
crafty  than  either,  the  turbulent  mother  of  all  Arts. 
In  history7  of  these  regions  I  met  with  a  ray  from  the 
Future.  The  individual  artificialities  of  the  three 
latter  were  local  diseases  of  the  Earth,  and  in  their  in 
dividual  overthrows  we  had  seen  local  remedies  ap 
plied  ;  but  for  the  infected  world  at  large  I  could  an- 

7"History,"  f rom  IOTOQEIV,  to   contemplate.  (Foe's   Note). 


326  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

ticipate  no  regeneration  save  in  death.  That  man,  as  a 
race,  should  not  become  extinct,  I  saw  that  he  must  be 
"born  again" 

And  now  it  was,  fairest  and  dearest,  that  we 
wrapped  our  spirits,  daily,  in  dreams.  Now  it  was 
that,  in  twilight,  we  discoursed  of  the  days  to  come, 
when  the  Art-scarred  surface  of  the  Earth,  having  un 
dergone  that  purification8  which  alone  could  efface  its 
rectangular  obscenities,  should  clothe  itself  anew  in  the 
verdure  and  the  mountain-slopes  and  the  smiling  wa 
ters  of  Paradise,  and  be  rendered  at  length  a  fit  dwell 
ing-place  for  man: — for  man  the  Death-purged — for 
man  to  whose  now  exalted  intellect  there  should  be 
poison  in  knowledge  no  more — for  the  redeemed,  re 
generated,  blissful,  and  now  immortal,  but  still  for  the 
material,  man. 

Una.  Well  do  I  remember  these  conversations, 
dear  Monos ;  but  the  epoch  of  the  fiery  overthrow  was 
not  so  near  at  hand  as  we  believed,  and  as  the  corrup 
tion  you  indicate  did  surely  warrant  us  in  believing. 
Men  lived ;  and  died  individually.  You  yourself  sick 
ened,  and  passed  into  the  grave ;  and  thither  your  con 
stant  Una  speedily  followed  you.  And  though  the 
century  which  has  since  elapsed,  and  whose  conclusion 
brings  us  thus  together  once  more,  tortured  our  slum 
bering  senses  with  no  impatience  of  duration,  yet,  my 
Monos,  it  was  a  century  still. 

Monos.  Say,  rather,  a  point  in  the  vague  infinity. 
Unquestionably,  it  was  in  the  Earth's  dotage  that  I 
died.  Wearied  at  heart  with  anxieties  which  had  their 

8The  word  "purification"  seems  here  to  be  used  with  ref 
erence  to  its  root  in  the  Greek  XVQ,  fire.  (Poe's  Note.) 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  327 

origin  in  the  general  turmoil  and  decay,  I  succumbed 
to  the  fierce  fever.  After  some  few  days  of  pain,  and 
many  of  dreamy  delirium  replete  with  ecstasy,  the 
manifestations  of  which  you  mistook  for  pain,  while  I 
longed  but  was  impotent  to  undeceive  you — after  some 
days  there  came  upon  me,  as  you  have  said,  a  breath 
less  and  motionless  torpor  and  this  was  termed  Death 
by  those  who  stood  around  me. 

Words  are  vague  things.  My  condition  did  not 
deprive  me  of  sentience.  It  appeared  to  me  not  greatly 
dissimilar  to  the  extreme  quiescence  of  him,  who,  hav 
ing  slumbered  long  and  profoundly,  lying  motionless 
and  fully  prostrate  in  a  midsummer  noon,  begins  to 
steal  slowly  back  into  consciousness,  through  the  mere 
sufficiency  of  his  sleep,  and  without  being  awakened 
by  external  disturbances. 

I  breathed  no  longer.  The  pulses  were  still.  The 
heart  had  ceased  to  beat.  Volition  had  not  departed, 
but  was  powerless.  The  senses  were  unusually  active, 
although  eccentrically  so — assuming  often  each  other's 
functions  at  random.  The  taste  and  the  smell  were 
inextricably  confounded,  and  became  one  sentiment, 
abnormal  and  intense.  The  rose-water  with  which 
your  tenderness  had  moistened  my  lips  to  the  last,  af 
fected  me  with  sweet  fancies  of  flowers — fantastic 
flowers,  far  more  lovely  than  any  of  the  old  Earth,  but 
whose  prototypes  we  have  here  blooming  around  us. 
The  eyelids,  transparent  and  bloodless,  offered  no 
complete  impediment  to  vision.  As  volition  was  in 
abeyance,  the  balls  could  not  roll  in  their  sockets — but 
all  objects  within  the  range  of  the  visual  hemisphere 
were  seen  with  more  or  less  distinctness ;  the  rays 
which  fell  upon  the  external  retina,  or  into  the  corner 


328  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

of  the  eye,  producing  a  more  vivid  effect  than  those 
which  struck  the  front  or  interior  surface.  Yet,  in  the 
former  instance,  this  effect  was  so  far  anomalous  that 
I  appreciated  it  only  as  sound — sound  sweet  or  dis 
cordant  as  the  matters  presenting  themselves  at  my 
side  were  light  or  dark  in  shade — curved  or  angular 
in  outline.  The  hearing,  at  the  same  time,  although 
excited  in  degree,  was  not  irregular  in  action — esti 
mating  real  sounds  with  an  extravagance  of  precision, 
not  less  than  of  sensibility.  Touch  had  undergone  a 
modification  more  peculiar.  Its  impressions  were 
tardily  received,  but  pertinaciously  retained,  and  re 
sulted  always  in  the  highest  physical  pleasure.  Thus 
the  pressure  of  your  sweet  fingers  upon  my  eyelids, 
at  first  only  recognized  through  vision,  at  length,  long 
after  their  removal,  filled  my  whole  being  with  a  sen 
sual  delight  immeasurable.  I  say  with  a  sensual  de 
light.  All  my  perceptions  were  purely  sensual.  The 
materials  furnished  the  passive  brain  by  the  senses 
were  not  in  the  least  degree  wrought  into  shape  by  the 
deceased  understanding.  Of  pain  there  was  some  lit 
tle  ;  of  pleasure  there  was  much ;  but  of  moral  pain  or 
pleasure  none  at  all.  Thus  your  wild  sobs  floated 
into  my  ear  with  all  their  mournful  cadences,  and 
were  appreciated  in  their  every  variation  of  sad  tone ; 
but  they  were  soft  musical  sounds  and  no  more ;  they 
conveyed  to  the  extinct  reason  no  intimation  of  the 
sorrows  which  gave  them  birth;  while  the  large  and 
constant  tears  which  fell  upon  my  face,  telling  the  by 
standers  of  a  heart  which  broke,  thrilled  every  fibre 
of  my  frame  with  ecstasy  alone.  And  this  was  in 
truth  the  Death  of  which  these  bystanders  spoke  rever 
ently,  in  low  whispers — yon,  sweet  Una,  gaspingly, 
with  loud  cries. 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  329 

They  attired  me  for  the  coffin — three  or  four  dark 
figures  which  flitted  busily  to  and  fro.  As  these 
crossed  the  direct  line  of  my  vision,  they  affected  me 
as  forms;  but  upon  passing  to  my  side  their  images 
impressed  me  with  the  idea  of  shrieks,  groans,  and 
other  dismal  expressions  of  terror,  or  horror,  or  of 
woe.  You  alone,  habited  in  a  white  robe,  passed  in  all 
directions  musically  about  me. 

The  day  waned;  and,  as  its  light  faded  away,  I 
became  possessed  by  a  vague  uneasiness — an  anxiety 
such  as  the  sleeper  feels  when  sad  real  sounds  fall  con 
tinuously  within  his  ear — low  distant  bell-tones,  sol 
emn,  at  long  but  equal  intervals,  and  commingling 
with  melancholy  dreams.  Night  arrived;  and  with 
its  shadows  a  heavy  discomfort.  It  oppressed  my 
limbs  with  the  oppression  of  some  dull  weight,  and 
was  palpable.  There  was  also  a  moaning  sound,  not 
unlike  the  distant  reverberation  of  surf,  but  more  con 
tinuous,  which,  beginning  with  the  first  twilight,  had 
grown  in  strength  with  the  darkness.  Suddenly  lights 
were  brought  into  the  room,  and  this  reverberation  be 
came  forthwith  interrupted  into  frequent  unequal 
bursts  of  the  same  sound,  but  less  dreary  and  less  dis 
tinct.  The  ponderous  oppression  was  in  a  great  meas 
ure  relieved ;  and,  issuing  from  the  flame  of  each  lamp 
(for  there  were  many),  there  flowed  unbrokenly  into 
my  ears  a  strain  of  melodious  monotone.  And  when 
now,  dear  Una,  approaching  the  bed  upon  which  I  lay 
outstretched,  you  sat  gently  by  my  side,  breathing 
odour  from  your  sweet  lips,  and  pressing  them  upon 
my  brow,  there  arose  tremulously  within  my  bosom, 
and  mingled  with  the  merely  physical  sensations  which 
circumstances  had  called  forth,  a  something  akin  to 


330  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

sentiment  itself — a  feeling  that,  half  appreciating,  half 
responded  to  your  earnest  love  and  sorrow;  but  this 
feeling  took  no  root  in  the  pulseless  heart,  and  seemed 
indeed  rather  a  shadow  than  a  reality,  and  faded 
quickly  away,  first  into  extreme  quiescence,  and  then 
into  a  purely  sensual  pleasure  as  before. 

And  now,  from  the  wreck  and  the  chaos  of  the 
usual  senses,  there  appeared  to  have  arisen  within  me 
a  sixth,  all  perfect.  In  its  exercise  I  found  a  wild  de 
light — yet  a  delight  still  physical,  inasmuch  as  the  un 
derstanding  had  in  it  no  part.  Motion  in  the  animal 
frame  had  fully  ceased.  No  muscle  quivered ;  no 
nerve  thrilled ;  no  artery  throbbed.  But  there  seemed 
to  have  sprung  up  in  the  brain,  that  of  which  no  words 
could  convey  to  the  merely  human  intelligence  even 
an  indistinct  conception.  Let  me  term  it  a  mental 
pendulous  pulsation.  It  was  the  moral  embodiment  of 
man's  abstract  idea  of  Time.  By  the  absolute  equili- 
zation  of  this  movement — or  of  such  as  this — had  the 
cycles  of  the  firmamental  orbs  themselves,  been  ad 
justed.  By  its  aid  I  measured  the  irregularities  of  the 
clock  upon  the  mantel,  and  of  the  watches  of  the  at 
tendants.  Their  tickings  came  sonorously  to  my  ears. 
The  slightest  deviations  from  the  true  proportion — 
and  these  deviations  were  omniprevalent — affected  me 
just  as  violations  of  abstract  truth  were  wont,  on 
earth,  to  affect  the  moral  sense.  Although  no  two  of 
the  time-pieces  in  the  chamber  struck  the  individual 
seconds  accurately  together,  yet  I  had  no  difficulty  in 
holding  steadily  in  mind  the  tones  and  the  respective 
momentary  errors  of  each.  And  this — this  keen,  per 
fect,  self-existing  sentiment  of  duration — this  senti 
ment  existing  (as  man  could  not  possibly  have  con- 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  331 

ceived  it  to  exist)  independently  of  any  succession  of 
'events — this  idea — this  sixth  sense,  tipspringing  from 
the  ashes  of  the  rest,  was  the  first  obvious  and  certain 
step  of  the  intemporal  soul  upon  the  threshold  of  the 
temporal  Eternity. 

It  was  midnight ;  and  you  still  sat  by  my  side.  All 
others  had  departed  from  the  chamber  of  Death. 
They  had  deposited  me  in  the  coffin.  The  lamps 
burned  flickeringly ;  for  this  I  knew  by  the  tremulous- 
ness  of  the  monotonous  strains.  But,  suddenly  these 
strains  diminished  in  distinctness  and  in  volume.  Fi 
nally  they  ceased.  The  perfume  in  my  nostrils  died 
away.  Forms  affected  my  vision  no  longer.  The  op 
pression  of  the  Darkness  uplifted  itself  from  my 
bosom.  A  dull  shock  like  that  of  electricity  pervaded 
my  frame,  and  was  followed  by  total  loss  of  the  idea 
of  contact.  All  of  what  man  has  termed  sense  was 
merged  in  the  sole  consciousness  of  entity,  and  in  the 
one  abiding  sentiment  of  duration.  The  mortal  body 
had  been  at  length  stricken  with  the  hand  of  the  deadly 
Decay. 

Yet  had  not  all  sentience  departed ;  for  the  con 
sciousness  and  the  sentiment  remaining  supplied  some 
of  its  functions  by  a  lethargic  intuition.  I  appreciated 
the  direful  change  now  in  operation  upon  the  flesh, 
and,  as  the  dreamer  is  sometimes  aware  of  the  bodily 
presence  of  one  who  leans  over  him,  so,  sweet  Una,  I 
still  dully  felt  that  you  sat  by  my  side.  So,  too,  when 
the  noon  of  the  second  day  came,  I  was  not  uncon 
scious  of  those  movements  which  displaced  you  from 
my  side,  which  confined  me  within  the  coffin,  which 
deposited  me  within  the  hearse,  which  bore  me  to  th'e 
grave,  which  lowered  me  within  it,  which  heaped 


332  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

heavily  the  mould  upon  me,  and  which  thus  left  me,  in 
blackness  and  corruption,  to  my  sad  and  solemn  slum 
bers  with  the  worm. 

And  here,  in  the  prison-house  which  has  few  se 
crets  to  disclose,  there  rolled  away  days  and  weeks  and 
months,  and  the  soul  watched  narrowly  each  second  as 
it  flew,  and,  without  effort,  took  record  of  its  flight — 
without  effort  and  without  object. 

A  year  passed.  The  consciousness  of  being  had 
grown  hourly  more  indistinct,  and  that  of  mere  locality 
had,  in  great  measure,  usurped  its  position.  The  idea 
of  entity  was  becoming  merged  in  that  of  place.  The 
narrow  space  immediately  surrounding  what  had  been 
the  body,  was  now  growing  to  be  the  body  itself.  At 
length,  as  often  happens  to  the  sleeper  (by  sleep  and 
its  world  alone  is  Death  imaged) — at  length,  as  some 
times  happened  on  Earth  to  the  deep  slumberer,  when 
some  flitting  light  half  startled  him  into  awaking,  yet 
left  him  half  enveloped  in  dreams — so  to  me,  in  the 
strict  embrace  of  the  Shadow ,  came  that  light  which 
alone  might  have  had  power  to  startle — the  light  of 
enduring  Love.  Men  toiled  at  the  grave  in  which  I 
lay  darkling.  They  upthrew  the  damp  earth.  Upon 
my  mouldering  bones  there  descended  the  coffin  of 
Una. 

And  now  again  all  was  void.  That  nebulous  light 
had  been  extinguished.  That  feeble  thrill  had  vi 
brated  itself  into  quiescence.  Many  lustra  had  super 
vened.  Dust  had  returned  to  dust.  The  worm  had 
food  no  more.  The  sense  of  being  had  at  length  ut 
terly  departed,  and  there  reigned  in  its  stead — instead 
of  all  things — dominant  and  perpetual — the  autocrats 
Place  and  Time.  For  that  which  was  not — for  that 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  333 

which  had  no  form — for  that  which  had  no  thought — 
for  that  which  had  no  sentience — for  that  which  was 
soulless,  yet  of  which  matter  formed  no  portion — for 
all  this  nothingness,  yet  for  all  this  immortality,  the 
grave  was  still  a  home,  and  the  corrosive  hours,  co- 
mates. 

THE  POWER  OF  WORDS    (1845) 

[Again  two  angelic  intelligences,  children  of  the 
fair  earth  that  lately  perished,  meet  and  talk  of  supra- 
mundane  things.  Agathos  is  inducting  Oinos,  the  spirit 
newly  arrived,  into  the  method  of  creation.  The 
thought  follows  closely  the  lines  later  developed  in 
Eureka,  but  the  conclusion  is  a  leap  of  fantasy  over  the 
walls  of  analytic  reason.  Spoken  words — so  runs  the 
main  thread  of  the  exposition — create  endless  vibra 
tions  in  the  ether  and  these  vibrations  modify  all  exist 
ent  forms  or,  to  put  it  differently,  create  new  forms. 
Now  comes  the  startling  terminal  thought  that  the 
spirit  in  which  words  are  uttered  is  also  communicated 
to  the  resultant  new  worlds.  A  turbulent  thought, 
expressed  in  turbulent  words,  becomes  immundane  in 
a  turbulent  world.  "The  Power  of  Words"  says  a 
critic  in  The  London  Times  Literary  Supplement,  of 
June  22,  1916,  "is  worth  all  Poe's  famous  stories,  in 
cluding  even  The  Gold-Bug  or  The  Mystery  of  Marie 
Roget.  It  is,  in  fact,  one  of  the  most  wonderful  pieces 
of  prose  in  the  English  language,  both  for  manner  and 
for  matter."  One  sentence  of  it  at  least  is  unsurpassed 
in  ancient  or  modern  English  prose.  For  sheer  lift, 
for  sudden  overflow  into  the  infinite,  I  know  nothing 
comparable  with  this  from  Agathos:  "Come!  we  will 
leave  to  the  left  the  loud  harmony  of  the  Pleiades,  and 


334  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

swoop  outward  from  the  throne  into  the  starry 
meadows  beyond  Orion,  where,  for  pansies  and 
violets,  and  heart's-ease,  are  the  beds  of  the  triplicate 
and  triple-tinted  suns."  The  Power  of  Words  may 
well  close  our  brief  study  of  Poe's  writings.  It  con 
tains  the  philosophy  of  one  who  believed  that  Aidenn 
is  the  trysting-place  not  only  of  dead  lovers  but  of  all 
those  homing  dreams  and  far-faring  intuitions  that 
feel  infinity  in  their  pulses.] 

Oinos.  Pardon,  Agathos,  the  weakness  of  a  spirit 
new-fledged  with  immortality! 

Agathos.  You  have  spoken  nothing,  my  Oinos, 
for  which  pardon  is  to  be  demanded.  Not  even  here  is 
knowledge  a  thing  of  intuition.  For  wisdom  ask  of 
the  angels  freely,  that  it  may  be  given ! 

Oinos.  But  in  this  existence,  I  dreamed  that  I 
should  be  at  once  cognizant  of  all  things,  and  thus  at 
once  happy  in  being  cognizant  of  all. 

Agathos.  Ah,  not  in  knowledge  is  happiness,  but 
in  the  acquisition  of  knowledge !  In  forever  knowing, 
we  are  forever  blessed ;  but  to  know  all  were  the 
curse  of  a  fiend. 

Oinos.    But  does  not  The  Most  High  know  all? 

Agathos.  That  (since  he  is  The  Most  Happy)  must 
be  still  the  one  thing  unknown  even  to  HIM. 

Oinos.  But,  since  we  grow  hourly  in  knowledge, 
must  not  at  last  all  things  be  known? 

Agathos.  Look  down  into  the  abysmal  distances! 
— attempt  to  force  the  gaze  down  the  multitudinous 
vistas  of  the  stars,  as  we  sweep  slowly  through  them 
thus — and  thus — and  thus!  Even  the  spiritual  vision, 
is  it  not  at  all  points  arrested  by  the  continuous  golden 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  335 

walls  of  the  universe? — the  walls  of  the  myriads  of 
the  shining  bodies  that  mere  number  has  appeared  to 
blend  into  unity  ? 

Oinos.  I  clearly  perceive  that  the  infinity  of  mat 
ter  is  no  dream. 

Agathos.  There  are  no  dreams  in  Aidenn — but  it 
is  here  whispered  that,  of  this  infinity  of  matter,  the 
sole  purpose  is  to  afford  infinite  springs,  at  which  the 
soul  may  allay  the  thirst  to  know  which  is  forever  un 
quenchable  within  it — since  to  quench  it  would  be  to 
extinguish  the  soul's  self.  Question  me  then,  my 
Oinos,  freely  and  without  fear.  Come!  we  will  leave 
to  the  left  the  loud  harmony  of  the  Pleiades,  and  swoop 
outward  from  the  throne  into  the  starry  meadows  be 
yond  Orion,  where,  for  pansies  and  violets,  and  heart's- 
ease,  are  the  beds  of  the  triplicate  and  triple-tinted 
suns. 

Oinos.  And  now,  Agathos,  as  we  proceed,  instruct 
me !  speak  to  me  in  the  earth's  familiar  tones !  I  under 
stood  not  what  you  hinted  to  me,  just  now,  of  the 
modes  or  of  the  methods  of  what,  during  mortality, 
we  were  accustomed  to  call  Creation.  Do  you  mean 
to  say  that  the  Creator  is  not  God  ? 

Agathos.  I  mean  to  say  that  the  Deity  does  not 
create. 

Oinos.     Explain ! 

Agathos.  In  the  beginning  only,  he  created.  The 
seeming  creatures  which  are  now,  throughout  the  uni 
verse,  so  perpetually  springing  into  being,  can  only  be 
considered  as  the  mediate  or  indirect,  not  as  the  direct 
or  immediate  results  of  the  Divine  creative  power. 

Oinos.  Among  men,  my  Agathos,  this  idea  would 
be  considered  heretical  in  the  extreme. 


336  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Agathos.  Among  angels,  my  Oinos,  it  is  seen  to 
be  simply  true. 

Oinos.  I  can  comprehend  you  thus  far — that  cer 
tain  operations  of  what  we  term  Nature,  or  the  natural 
laws,  will,  under  certain  conditions,  give  rise  to  that 
which  has  all  the  appearance  of  creation.  Shortly  be 
fore  the  final  overthrow  of  the  earth,  there  were,  I 
well  remember,  many  very  successful  experiments  in 
what  some  philosophers  were  weak  enough  to  denom 
inate  the  creation  of  animalculse. 

Agathos.  The  cases  of  which  you  speak  were,  in 
fact,  instances  of  the  secondary  creation — and  of  the 
only  species  of  creation  which  has  ever  been,  since  the 
first  word  spoke  into  existence  the  first  law. 

Oinos.  Are  not  the  starry  worlds  that,  from  the 
abyss  of  nonentity,  burst  hourly  forth  into  the  heavens 
— are  not  these  stars,  Agathos,  the  immediate  handi 
work  of  the  King? 

Agathos.  Let  me  endeavour,  my  Oinos,  to  lead 
you,  step  by  step,  to  the  conception  I  intend.  You  are 
well  aware  that,  as  no  thought  can  perish,  so  no  act  is 
without  infinite  result.  We  moved  our  hands,  for  ex 
ample,  when  we  were  dwellers  on  the  earth,  and,  in 
so  doing,  we  gave  vibration  to  the  atmosphere  which 
engirdled  it.  This  vibration  was  indefinitely  extended, 
till  it  gave  impulse  to  every  particle  of  the  earth's  air, 
which  thenceforward,  and  forever,  was  actuated  by  the 
one  movement  of  the  hand.  This  fact  the  mathemati 
cians  of  our  globe  well  knew.  They  made  the  special 
effects,  indeed,  wrought  in  the  fluid  by  special  im 
pulses,  the  subject  of  exact  calculation — so  that  it  be 
came  easy  to  determine  in  what  precise  period  an  im 
pulse  of  given  extent  would  engirdle  the  orb,  and 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  337 

impress  (forever)  every  atom  of  the  atmosphere  cir 
cumambient.  Retrograding,  they  found  no  difficulty, 
from  a  given  effect,  under  given  conditions,  in  deter 
mining  the  value  of  the  original  impulse.  Now  the 
mathematicians  who  saw  that  the  results  of  any  given 
impulse  were  absolutely  endless — and  who  saw  that  a 
portion  of  these  results  were  accurately  traceable 
through  the  agency  of  algebraic  analysis — who  saw, 
too,  the  facility  of  the  retrogradation — these  men  saw, 
at  the  same  time,  that  this  species  of  analysis  itself, 
had  within  itself  a  capacity  for  indefinite  progress — 
that  there  were  no  bounds  conceivable  to  its  advance 
ment  and  applicability,  except  within  the  intellect  of 
him  who  advanced  or  applied  it.  But  at  this  point 
our  mathematicians  paused. 

Oinos.  And  why,  Agathos,  should  they  have  pro 
ceeded  ? 

Agathos.  Because  there  were  some  considerations 
of  deep  interest,  beyond.  It  was  deducible  from  what 
they  knew,  that  to  a  being  of  infinite  understanding — 
one  to  whom  the  perfection  of  the  algebraic  analysis  lay 
unfolded — there  could  be  no  difficulty  in  tracing  every 
impulse  given  the  air — and  the  ether  through  the  air — 
to  the  remotest  consequences  at  any  even  infinitely 
remote  epoch  of  time.  It  is  indeed  demonstrable  that 
every  such  impulse  given  the  air,  must,  in  the  end,  im 
press  every  individual  thing  that  exists  within  the  uni 
verse  ; — and  the  being  of  infinite  understanding — the 
being  whom  we  have  imagined — might  trace  the  re 
mote  undulations  of  the  impulse — trace  them  upward 
and  onward  in  their  influences  upon  all  particles  of  all 
matter — upward  and  onward  forever  in  their  modifica 
tions  of  old  forms — or  in  other  words  in  their  creation 


338  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

of  new — until  he  found  them  reflected — unimpressive 
at  last — back  from  the  throne  of  the  Godhead.  And 
not  only  could  such  a  being  do  this,  but  at  any  epoch, 
should  a  given  result  be  afforded  him — should  one  of 
these  numberless  comets,  for  example,  be  presented  to 
his  inspection — he  could  have  no  difficulty  in  deter 
mining,  by  the  analytic  retrogradation,  to  what 
original  impulse  it  was  due.  This  power  of  retrogra 
dation  in  its  absolute  fulness  and  perfection — this 
faculty  of  referring  at  all  epochs,  all  effects  to  all 
causes — is  of  course  the  prerogative  of  the  Deity  alone. 
— but  in  every  variety  of  degree,  short  of  the  absolute 
perfection,  is  the  power  itself  exercised  by  the  whole 
host  of  the  Angelic  Intelligences. 

Oinos.  But  you  speak  merely  of  impulses  upon  the 
air. 

Agathos.  In  speaking  of  the  air,  I  referred  only  to 
the  earth: — but  the  general  proposition  has  reference 
to  impulses  upon  the  ether — which,  since  it  pervades, 
and  alone  pervades  all  space,  is  thus  the  great  medium 
of  creation. 

Oinos.  Then  all  motion,  of  whatever  nature, 
creates  ? 

Agathos.  It  must :  but  a  true  philosophy  has  long 
taught  that  the  source  of  all  motion  is  thought — and 
the  source  of  all  thought  is — 

Oinos.     God. 

Agathos.  I  have  spoken  to  you,  Oinos,  as  to  a 
child  of  the  fair  Earth  which  lately  perished — of  im 
pulses  upon  the  atmosphere  of  the  Earth. 

Oinos.    You  did. 

Agathos.     And  while  I  thus  spoke,  did  there  not 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN  339 

cross  your  mind  some  thought  of  the  physical  power  of 
words?  Is  not  every  word  an  impulse  on  the  air? 

Oinos.  But  why,  Agathos,  do  you  weep? — and 
why — oh  why  do  your  wings  droop  as  we  hover  above 
this  fair  star — which  is  the  greenest  and  yet  most  ter 
rible  of  all  we  have  encountered  in  our  flight?  Its 
brilliant  flowers  look  like  a  fairy  dream — but  its  fierce 
volcanoes  like  the  passions  of  a  turbulent  heart. 

Agathos.  They  are  I — they  are  I  This  wild  star — 
it  is  now  three  centuries  since  with  clasped  hands,  and 
with  streaming  eyes,  at  the  feet  of  my  beloved — I  spoke 
it — with  a  few  passionate  sentences — into  birth.  Its 
brilliant  flowers  are  the  dearest  of  all  unfulfilled 
dreams,  and  its  raging  volcanoes  are  the  passions  of 
the  most  turbulent  and  unhallowed  of  hearts. 

THE  END 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Abbott,  L.  F.,  37- 

Abeledo,  A.,  14. 

Abernethy,  John,  277. 

yEschylus,  89,  109,  113. 

Alcman,  299. 

Aldrich,  James,  164,  165* 

Allan,  John,  2. 

Allan,  Mrs.  John,  58. 

American  Whig  Review,  The,  166,  220. 

Anacreon,  109. 

Angelo,  Michael,  149. 

Annabel  Lee,  225,  231,  234-236. 

Anthon,  Charles,  62. 

Armstrong,  John,  93. 

Arnold,  Elizabeth,  Poe's  mother,  I,  166. 

Arnold,  Matthew,  75. 

Assignation,  The,  215,  239,  243. 

Bacon,  29,  161,  248,  249,  295. 

Balmont,   Constantine,  6.  7. 

Balzac,  316. 

Barrett,  Miss  Elizabeth  Barrett,  158,  160,  162. 

Baudelaire,  7,  9,  14,  15,   16,   173- 

Bells,  The,  14,  225,  228-231. 

Beranger,  de  P.  J.,  109,  150,  193. 

Berenice,  243. 

Berryer,  P.  A.,  166. 

Betz,  L.  P.,  225. 

Bielfield,  Baron,  in. 

Black  Cat,  The,  239,  243. 

B  odd  in,  A.,  8. 

Bolingbroke,   Viscount,  63,  64. 

Bonalde,  P.,  14. 

Brandes,  George,  19. 

Bresciano,  R.,  10. 

Broadway  Journal,  The,  158,  163,  218. 

Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  295. 

Brownell,  W.  C,  24,  296. 

Browning,  Robert,  15,  71,  208,  209. 

Bruyere,  La,  8l,  280. 

Bryant,  Jacob,  284. 

Bryant,  W.  C.,  22,  31,  32,  73,  98,  101,  104,  105,  106,  190. 

343 


344 

Bulwe?,5  SfrEdward,  63,  78,  116,  119,  wi,  123. 

Bunyan,  John,  120. 

Burger,  G.  A.,  206. 

Burke,  Edmund,  49. 

Burns,  Robert,  89. 

Burroughs,  John,  24. 

Burton's  Gentleman's  Magazine,  100,  145. 

Byron,  70,  101,  145. 

Calderon,  Pedro,  H7- 

Campanella,  280. 

Campbell,  Killis,  210,  231,  236. 

Carew,  Thomas,  no. 

Cask  of  Amontillado,  The,  239,  243. 

Castro  y   Serrano,  Jose  de,  13. 

Cata,  D.  A.  H.,  12. 

Catalani,  A.,  291. 

Cervantes,  89,  113,  "7« 

Cham  fort,  283. 

Chopin,  4. 

City  in  the  Sea,  The,  212-214. 

Clemm,  Mrs.  Maria,  2,  3,  32,  66. 

Clemm,  Virginia,  Poe's  wife,  2,  3,  32,  56,  57,  66,  71,  225,  234. 

Coleridge,  S.  T.,  75,  89,  105,  no,  in,  113,  162,  206. 

Coliseum,  The,  214-215,  300. 

Colloquy  of  Monos  and  Una,  The,  221,  231,  320-333. 

Commire,  P.,  3:7« 

Cone,  S.  W.f  218. 

Conqueror  Worm,  The,  217-220,  246,  254. 

Conversation  of  Eiros  and  Charmion,  The,  221,  305-312,  32O. 

Cooke,  P.  P.,  245,  246. 

Cooper,  J.  R,  4,  9,  ",  12,  47,  73- 

Corinthians,  First  Epistle  to,  221. 

Cowley,  A.,   no. 

Cowper,  1 06,  115. 

Crabbe,  G.,  149. 

Crebillon,  P.  J.  de,  292. 

Cunningham,  Allan,  no. 

Dante,  89,  113. 
Dario,  Ruben,  14. 
Darwin,  Charles,  4. 
Dawes,  Rufus,  53. 
Defoe,  76,  77,  78,  120,  240. 
Descent  Into  the  Maelstrom,  A,  202,  240,  243. 
Devil  in  the  Belfry,  The,  51. 

Dickens,  Charles,  5,  55,  124,  128,  130,  131,  134,  136,  137,  138, 
139,  140,  141,  142,  174. 


INDEX  345 


Donne,  John,  no. 

Dostoyevsky,   19. 

Doyle,   Conan,  266. 

Drake,  Joseph  Rodman,  82,  112. 

Due  de  L'Omelette,  The,  240. 

Edison,  Thomas,  59. 

Edward,  221. 

Edward,  Georg,  7. 

Eldorado,  236-237. 

Eliot,  George,  69. 

Emerson,  R.  W.,  4,  22,  24,  74- 

English,  Thomas  Dunn,  45. 

Etzel,  Theodor,  8,  9. 

Eureka,  58,  66,  67,  116,  194,  221,  333. 

Euripides,  305. 

Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher,  The,  29,  216,  239,  243. 

Ferguson,  J.  DeL.,   n. 

Ferrero,  Felice,  9. 

Foch,  General  Ferdinand,  242. 

Fontainas,  Andre,  19. 

For  Annie,  211,  225,  231-234,  320. 

Fouque,  Baron  de  la  Motte,  113,  171. 

Fraisse,  A.,  15. 

Franklin,  Benjamin,  4. 

Fuller,  Margaret,  44,  45- 

Gautier,  T.,  15. 

Gibbon,  Edward,  61,  79. 

Gladstone,  W.  E.,  4. 

Glanvill,  Joseph,  218,  245,  251,  255. 

Godwin,  William,  142,  174. 

Goethe,  173,  206. 

Gogol,  4. 

Gold-Bug,  The,  II,  16,  240,  333. 

Gosse,  E.,  17,  21,  23,  206,  220,  225. 

Gourmont,  Remy  de,  15. 

Graham  G.  R.,  35. 

Graham's  Magazine,  116,  124,  142,  149,  173. 

Grandgent,  C.  H.,  9. 

Gravina,  L'Abbate,  108. 

Griswold,  R.  W.,  20,  41,  51,  53,  74- 

Guerra,  A.,  13,  14. 

Hannay,  James,  50. 
Harrington,  J.,  no. 
Harris,  J.  C.,  4,  238,  239. 
Harrison,  James  A,,  28, 


346  INDEX 

Harte,  Bret,  238,  239. 

Haunted  Palace,  The,  216-217,  244. 

Hawthorne,  N.,  12,  21,  69,  74,  149,  151,  153,  154,  156,  158,  238, 

239,  241. 

Headley,  J.   T.,  54- 
Heine,  H.,  19. 

Henry,  O.,  4,  51,  238,  239,  243,  293. 
Hippe,  Fritz,  9. 
Hirst,  H.  B.,  55. 
Hoffmann,  E.  T.  A.,  7,  8,  13. 
Hogarth,  121. 
Holmes,  O.  W.,  4,  4i,  74- 
Homer,  109. 

Hood,  Thomas,  159,  164,  165. 
How  to  Write  a  Blackwood  Article,  51. 
Hoyt,   Ralph,   158. 
Hugo,  Victor,  136. 

Ibanez,  V.  B.,  u. 

Ingram,  J.  H.,  7,  17,  20,  220. 

Irving,  Washington,  73,  153,  238,  239. 

Isaiah,  212. 

Island  of  the  Fay,  The,  313-320. 

Israfel,  211-212. 

James,  Henry,  24. 

James,  William,  4. 

Jannaccone,   P.,    10. 

Jefferson,  Thomas,  36. 

Johnson,  Samuel,  25,  109. 

Jonson,  Ben,  25,  84. 

Journal  of  Julius  Rodman,  The,  240. 

Keats,  89,  105,  113,  160. 
Kellner,  Leon,  240,  266. 
Kennedy,  J.   P.,  36. 
Knowles,   Sheridan,   169. 
Korner,  K.  T.,  146. 

Lamb,  Charles,  51. 

Landa,  N.,  12. 

Landor's  Cottage,  30. 

Lang,  Andrew,  23. 

Latrobe,  J.  H.  B.,  55- 

Lauvriere,  E.,  17,  18,  19,  220,  313. 

Legare,  H.  S.,  44. 

Le  Sage,  120. 

Ligeia,  210,  218,  219,  239,  240,  243,  245-366. 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  4,  n. 

Literary  Life  of  Thingum  Bob,  Esq.,  The,  51. 


INDEX  347 

Literati    of  New  York,  The,  31. 

Longfellow,  H.  W.,  4,  9,  12,  14,  22,  44,  45,  73,  98,  142,  143, 

147,  148,  149,  164,  165,  166,  206,  211,  216. 
Longstreet,  judge  A.  B.,  44,  80. 
Lord  Randal,  221. 
Lowell,  J.  R.,  22,  27,  28,  35,  4*,  42,  44,  45,  BO,  73,  75,  234,  295- 

Macaulay,  T.  B.,  53,  63,  173. 

Machiavelli,  280. 

McKenzie,  William,  2. 

Madison,  Dolly,  8. 

Mallarme,  14,  15,  16,  17,  18,  20. 

Mew  77wf  Wa.5  Used  Up,  The,  51. 

Marginalia,  56,  116,  166. 

Markham,  Edwin,  228. 

Marmontel,  J.  F.,  313. 

Masque  of  the  Red  Death,  The,  239,  243. 

Matthews,  Brander,  35,  241. 

Maury,  M.  F.,  59,  94,  95. 

Mela,  Pomponius,  316. 

Mellonta  Tauta,  240. 

Menasci,  Guido,  10. 

Mesmeric  Revelation,  56,  231. 

Milton,  89,  H3,  149,  210,  295. 

Moore,  Thomas,  no,  114,  115,  145,  198. 

Moran,  Dr.  J.  J.,  3. 

Moran,  Mrs.  J.  J.,  58. 

Morella,  243,  245,  246. 

Morris,  G.  P.,  106,  no. 

Morris,  William,  20. 

Mourey,  G.,  16,  17,  20. 

Ms.  Found  in  a  Bottle,  The,  2,  214,  240,  243. 

Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue,  The,  15,  240,  244,  266. 

Mystery  of  Marie  Roget  The,  240,  333. 

"Nadar":  see  Tournachon,  F. 

Narrative  of  A.  Gordon  Pym,  The,  10,  76,  94,  240. 

Neal,  John,  153. 

Nencioni,   E.,   10. 

Nettleton,  G.  H.,  239,  240. 

Never  Bet  the  Devil  Your  Head,  51. 

Newton,  Sir  Isaac,  63. 

New  York  Evening,  Mirror,  The,  220. 

Nichol,  John,  234. 

Nicoll,  Sir  Robertson,  124. 

Niebuhr,  79. 

Nitobe,  Inazo,  n. 

North,  Christopher,  John  Wilson,  81,  105. 

Noyes,  Alfred,  226. 


348  INDEiX 

O'Malley,  Charles,  49. 
Orban,  V.,  17. 
Ortensi,  U.,  10. 
Osgood,  Mrs.  F.  S.,  56. 
"Outis,"  164. 

Page,  C.  H.,  19,  29, 

Pascal,  325. 

Pater,  Walter,  15. 

Percy,   Bishop,  206. 

Philosophy  of  Composition,  The,  17,  173-190,  202,  203,  246. 

Pit  and  the  Pendulum,  The,  243. 

Plato,  325. 

PocaTidntas,  8. 

Poe,  David,  Jr.,  Poe's  father,  I. 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan:  brief  sketch  of  life,  1-3;  his  centennial, 
3-4;  his  popularity  in  Russia,  5-7;  in  Germany,  7-9; 
in  Italy,  9-11;  in  Spain,  11-14;  in  Latin-America,  14; 
in  France,  14-19;  in  England,  20-23;  as  a  projectile 
force,  24-25;  relatedness  to  time  and  place,  26-27;  the 
man  vs.  the  artist,  27-35;  suggestions  for  improvement 
of  schools,  36-37;  opinion  of  slavery,  38-40;  alleged 
sectionalism,  40-45 ;  his  Americanism,  45-50 ;  his  humor, 
50-56 ;  at  home,  56-57 ;  attitude  to  religion,  58-68 ;  fond 
ness  for  strong  drink,  69-71 ;  not  the  poet  laureate  of 
death,  71-72;  the  critic,  73-75;  specimens  of  his  criti 
cism,  76-201 ;  the  poet,  202-209 ;  selections  from  poems, 
210-237;  the  writer  of  short  stories,  238-244;  selections 
from  short  stories,  245-292;  the  frontiersman,  293-295; 
selections  from  frontier  sketches,  296-339. 

Poe,  Henry,   Poe's  brother,  I, 

Poe,  Rosalie,  Poe's  sister,  I. 

Poetic  Principle,  The,  190-201. 

Pope,  Alexander,  89,  115. 

Potez,  H.,  14. 

Power  of  Words,  The,  221,  294,  333-339. 

Preface  to  the  Poems  of  1845,  209. 

Premature  Burial,  The,  240. 

Previati,  G.,  10,  II. 

Purloined  Letter,  Thef  240,  244,  266-292. 

Rachmaninoff,  6. 

Ransome,  Arthur,  294. 

Raumer,  von  Frederick,  97,  98. 

Raven,  The,  3,  8,  10,  n,  14,  18,  33,  56,  71,  76,  125,  173-190, 

215,  220-225,  231. 
Rawlinson,  Sir  Henry,  60. 
Revelation,  212. 
Richardson,  C.  F.,  245. 


INDEX  349 


Richmond,  Mrs.  Annie,  231. 
Robertson,  J.  M.,  23. 
Rochefoucauld,  81,  280. 
Roosevelt,  Theodore,  37. 
Rossetti,  D.  G.,  20,  226,  231. 
Ruskin,  John,  320. 

Sainte-Beuve,  75. 

Saintsbury,  George,  206. 

Sardou,  V.,  267. 

Sartain's  Union  Magazine,  190. 

Schlegel,  A.  W.,  112,  117,  144,  173. 

Schlegel,  F.,  173. 

Servius,  313. 

Shadow— A  Parable,  59,  296-299. 

Shakespeare,  51,  112,  209. 

Shelley,  71,  89,  91,  101,  105,  113,  160,  163. 

Shelton,  Mrs.  Sarah  E.,  3. 

Sheridan,   R.   B.,  70. 

Shew,  Mrs.  M.  L.,  28. 

Silence— A  Fable,  59,  299-305. 

Simms,  W.  G.,  40,  44. 

Sismondi,  79. 

Sleeper,  The,  33- 

Slidell,  Alexander,  94. 

Sonnet — Silence,  215. 

Sonnet — To  Science,  313. 

Sonnet — To  Zante,  215. 

Sophocles,  320. 

Southern  Literary  Messenger,  The,  2,  42,  76,  78,  80,  82,  93, 

97,  98. 

Spectacles,  The,  51. 
Spielhagen,  F.,  7. 

Stedman,  E.  C.,  21,  45,  71,  73,  240. 
Steele,  Richard,  210. 
Steen,  Jan,  149. 
Stephens,  J.  L.,  60. 
Sue,  Eugene,  172. 
Swift,  Dean,  240. 
Swinburne,  A.  .C,  20,  21, 

Taine,  H.,  75. 

Tale  of  Jerusalem,  A,  51. 

Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and  Arabesque,  157. 

Talleyrand,  130. 

Taylor,  Jeremy,  295. 

T ell-Tale  Heart,  The,  243. 

Tennyson,  4,  22,  23,  67,  71,  105,  106,  162,  163. 

Thomas,  F.  W.,  70,  236. 


35Q 


INDEX 


Ticknor,  Caroline,  18,  20. 

To  Helen,  210. 

Tolstoi,   19- 

To  One  in  Paradise,  215-216. 

Tournachon,  F.,  15. 

Twain,  Mark,  4,  51. 

Ulalume,  18,  33,  210,  225-228,  231. 

Verne,  Jules,  240. 

Volney,  Count,  61. 

Voltaire,  173- 

Von  Kempelen  and  His  Discovery,  230. 

Wallack,   Lester,   267. 

Ward,  Thomas,  51,  52. 

Whitman,  Mrs.  Sarah  Helen,  3,  17,  IQ,  20,  56, 

Whitman,  Walt,  4,  6,  9,  14,  18,  22,  42. 

Whittier,  J.  G.,  74- 

Whitty,  J.  H.,  58. 

Wilkins,  E.  H.,  9. 

William  Wilson,  71,  157,  158,  239,  243. 

Willis,  N.  P.,  166,  220. 

Wirt,  William,  36. 

Wise,  T.  J.,  21. 

Woodberry,  George  E.,  58,  73,  208,  240. 

Wordsworth,  William,  71,   105,  no,  162,  226, 

Wyzewa,  Teodor  de,  19. 

X-ing  a  Paragrdb,  51. 

Yarmolinsky,  A.,  5. 
Young,  Edward,  106. 

Zimmermann,  J.  G.,  316. 
Zola,  225. 


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